


melichrous

by pyrrhlc



Series: melichrous [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras POV, Ghost Grantaire, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, University Student Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: “I…” Enjolras begins helplessly. He looks up at the ceiling as if hoping it will give him the answer – all of the answers, in fact. “I have a ghost for a roommate.” he says at last. “I don’t know what to do with that information.”The man’s eyebrows fold themselves into a frown. “You sound disappointed.”Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says. “But you don’t look like a ghost.”Enjolras’ apartment is haunted. Somehow, he’s still grateful for the company.





	1. Slate

He hadn’t been expecting much in the way of obstacles. A bit of dust, perhaps. A second layer of paint on the outside door. A couple of cobwebs, maybe – but no spiders. Enjolras has always hated spiders. What a terrible thing to behold. It’s a wonder he ever boards alone at all.

But that had been the deal, Enjolras reminds himself – a fresh start, a change of place, a chance to change the world. That was the deal. And so he is here. Alone. Perhaps even slightly afraid. But not of this apartment. Just everything else.

Yes, everything else is distant and uncertain, but at the end of it Enjolras will be content to call this place home. Or so he hopes.

The interior is muggy and grey-lit; flicking on the light, Enjolras is unsurprised by the sight that greets him; a long, narrow hallway, a bathroom, a bedroom, a lounge and a half kitchen all rolled into one. The place is desolatingly empty. Empty of friends, and empty of him. Possessions, too, but then they have never felt quite as significant to Enjolras. It’s his lack of company that’s the problem. He has known it before, and he knows it now, standing in this hollow space, back pressed up against the half-open door. With only the slightest sense of caution, he steps in from the outer hallway and into his new apartment. His new life and regime. A routine of which he will come to know soundly and well.

That was the deal, and this is the result.

Most of his furniture has arrived ahead of him; the living room is littered with boxes, crawling silently in the half-dark, ranging from large to small and back again. Several of them bear the hallmarks of his now-far away friends; Enjolras’ heart clenches to think of it, to glance sideways and see Courfeyrac’s untidy scrawl pressed in sharp black ink up against the folds of corrugated cardboard. Combeferre, in turn, had been quick to try and colour-code, to organise and assure Enjolras that no, it wouldn’t be for long, isn’t this just the perfect opportunity?

And it is, Enjolras thinks, standing here, observing the detritus that is scattered all around. This is the very place he has always dreamed of going. The metallic landscape of northern England is just as foreign and confusing and as wonderful as he’d expected it to be – and yet it could be so much more so, if his friends were by his side.

But this is only the beginning. He will return home in the summer, but it will not be the same. How long, before each of them grow apart, disband, bored of petty dreams? Enjolras is terrible at being alone. He hopes it will not come to that, if it comes to anything at all.

He shakes himself from his thoughts. Time enough. Time enough he will have, later, to worry about such things. He is due at the University tomorrow. He has to sleep. Sleep, and not dream. He bites down on his sigh and wanders across the room, scanning each box until he finds it, the most battered and beleaguered of the lot – a box he has kept with him since the beginning. Enjolras lifts it up gently from the floor and makes for the bedroom, his mind stinging like a scratch torn asunder by a knife blade. Too sharp to heal so soon.

The loneliness will leave him soon – it always does – but that doesn’t mean he won’t resent the stages in-between. The longing and the aching. A plant, striving to grow in the dark. He passes through the shadows and opens the door to where the rest of the boxes lie in wait – in the dark, they look like people; huddled masses that crowd easily around his bed, pressing up against his wardrobe and chest of drawers. Even with his stuff in it (and even then, it doesn’t feel quite like his ‘stuff’ just yet) the room is quiet and empty of personality. He will have to unpack almost everything in the morning – it’s too late to start now. But first…

The box in his hands is far smaller than the rest – barely the size of his two hands, corners crumpled and time soft, it holds everything Enjolras has ever held dear; dog-eared poetry books from Jehan, cinema ticket stubs and train tickets, joint birthday cards from Courfeyrac and Combeferre, postcards from Bahorel and Feuilly’s well-deserved trip to southern Spain… All of it Enjolras has kept close, tucked away beneath his bed in the same way a child might hoard a favourite toy. Ridiculous and quite sentimental. No-one else will ever know, he thinks. But it makes Enjolras happy. Now, in his loneliness, these few precious mementos are more important than ever.

He sits down cross-legged on the bed (unmade, but that’s fine, he’ll sleep on the sofa if he has to, unpack sheets and pillow cases in the morning, when the greys of the night are at least distinguishable from black) and begins flicking carefully through the mementos, smiling as his fingers catch on that of which he had previously forgotten; photographs of Cosette, Marius and Éponine from their trip to the _Jardin des Plantes_ ; a copy of Gavroche’s favourite space-time comic, the front page almost completely obscured by hastily scribbled annotations and hurried musings; wild forget-me-nots pressed tight by Joly between the pages of an ancient copy of _Le Libération_ , plucked straight from Musichetta’s front yard. Arbitrary, all of it. But not to him. This is what will comfort him, in these cold, hard hours. Peace, and solitude, and memories.

“You look sad.”

Enjolras jerks sideways, the pressed forget-me-nots slipping from his hands. His hand goes instantly to the bedside table, but what is there to use? There’s nothing to fight, anyway – the room is completely empty. He has to have imagined it. It’s late. He’s tired. He’s spent the whole day juggling train times and pre-course examinations, and now—

“You’re not looking,” adds the voice, slightly petulantly, and this time Enjolras finds himself turning more slowly; he knows where the voice is coming from – in the corner, where a single wicker chair sits placid and completely still, the only remnant of the last people to live here – but he does not want to look. His breath is caught between his lungs and his throat, weighted like a stone.

He glances at the chair out of the corner of his eye and tries to ignore the unsteadiness of his hands. It doesn’t work.

There’s a man sat in the chair, sloped and eerily still. His chest does not rise and fall, and neither do his eyes blink as he looks on at Enjolras, sat still on a bare mattress surrounded by postcards and the memories of friends thrown far across the Channel. Enjolras can barely swallow; the man is undeniably _there_ , and yet—

Oh, Lord help him. He is far too tired for this.

“Don’t worry,” the man says, as Enjolras continues to stare at him. His body is pale and thinly translucent. Enjolras isn’t sure if he has enough energy to make the connection between _haunted wicker chair_ and _semi-translucen_ _t_ _man_. “I don’t bite. The last couple couldn’t even see me.”

“You’re a ghost,” Enjolras says abruptly. Suddenly, he feels as if he prefers spiders after all. “Aren’t you? You’re dead.”

The man inclines his head, smiling slightly. Curly brown hair bounces across his shoulders. “I am,” he says. “Sorry if that inconveniences you. It’s all part-and-parcel of the lease, I’m afraid.”

Enjolras glances down at the bed and finds a photo of Joly and Bossuet looking back at him. They’re each holding ice-creams. He looks back up at the man in front of him.

“I’m not sure I want a ghost in my room,” he says, cautiousness cutting into his words. The man looks harmless enough, but surely that’s all an act… “You didn’t ask to come in here.”

The man laughs – he has a nice laugh, Enjolras thinks distractedly; it’s very honest, very open and true.

“I’m not a vampire,” he replies, smiling. Then, his face falls slack. “I was in the kitchen, actually, when you came in. But you’re so _loud_ , and I—” He looks across at him, his pale, dimpled skin pock-marked by acne scars and sleepless nights. “You seemed very lonely. I thought I could help.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Really?”

“I…” Enjolras begins helplessly. He looks up at the ceiling as if hoping it will give him the answer – all of the answers, in fact. “I have a ghost for a roommate.” he says at last. “I don’t know what to do with that information.”

The man’s eyebrows fold themselves into a frown. “You sound disappointed.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says. “But you…” He trails off. “You don’t look like a ghost.”

The man dips a hand absently against his midriff and looks vaguely surprised when it passes right on through. He is transparent, sure enough, but it seems to Enjolras as if he still retains that spark of life, that glint of the eyes that only the living can ever have.

“I only died about a year ago,” the man says, glancing back at him. He looks briefly about the room. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Sorry?”

“You should get some sleep,” the ghost replies. In the dark, his skin is like a skein of moonlight. Enjolras glances at him sideways and finds that he can see the man much easier when not looking at him directly. “I can wake you up in the morning, if you like.”

“I’m not sleeping here.”

“Of course not.” the man replies knowledgeably. He bows his head, keeping his eyes hooded for a moment as he speaks. “That couch looks very comfy. I’m not going to follow you.”

“No?”

“I’m a ghost, not a stalker.”

“Right,” Enjolras says, standing up. He looks back at the array of knick-knacks that cover the bed. No matter. Surely the ghost won’t be able to touch them anyway.

He turns back to face him at the doorway. The ghost is still sat in the wicker chair, his sharp eyes – blue, Enjolras will come to learn, but not yet – following his every move. Enjolras coughs into the darkness.

“What’s your name? You know, for future reference.”

The ghost smiles. “Grantaire,” he says easily, leaning back against the wicker and very nearly phasing through it. “Jean-Marc Grantaire. And you?”

“Julian Enjolras,” Enjolras replies. He frowns again at Grantaire. “Goodnight, I guess.”

“Goodnight Enjolras,” the ghost replies. “Sleep well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I guess I’m writing Les Mis fic now? Oh well. That’s fine.
> 
> The wonderful @talefeathers suggested a ghost-centric fic, so here I am, writing up a Ghost Roommate AU. (So many AUs. When will it end. :’D)
> 
> Currently I have no framework for this, but I’ll try and pin down the rest of the plot and update this fic sometime next week, fingers crossed.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	2. Amaranthine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, the ghost in Enjolras’ apartment is not always entirely helpful.

“Do you need this many dishes? I’m pretty sure you don’t need this many dishes.”

Enjolras swats an idle hand in the direction of Grantaire – a movement he seems to have been repeating for well over the past hour. Grantaire dodges him easily and comes to rest somewhere above Enjolras’ shoulder, his sharp clear eyes peering into the half-empty cupboard with an expression that cannot be discerned.

“Are those willow-patterned? You fancy lad. They look very breakable.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, folding back the flaps of the cardboard box at his feet. Thank goodness Combeferre had commanded him to stack his plates in order of size. Enjolras’ favourite mug hadn’t been nearly so lucky.

“They’re just plates,” he answers Grantaire, setting them down in the centre of the cupboard. “I think they were my grandmother’s.”

Grantaire nods sagely. “Oh, I see.” he says. “‘Grandmother’, eh? _Definitely_ a fancy lad. I suppose you call your dad ‘father’ as well?”

Enjolras’ hands come to hover somewhere above the sandwich plates. “I suppose so,” he says quietly. “He’s never let me call him anything else.”

Grantaire, who seems to realise that he has touched a nerve, tactfully retreats his gaze. It comes to rest on a wooden block full of knives. “Can I help with anything?” he asks. Enjolras snorts in reply.

“You can’t _touch_ things, can you? It’s fine. I’ll get it done.” He sticks his hand inside the box, rummaging around for anything he might have missed – bizarrely, he’s already found a spatula mixed in with the bedding and the duvet. Enjolras can only assume that that is down to Courfeyrac – it’s the only explanation that makes sense. Satisfied that at least this box is empty, Enjolras flattens it with a hand and adds it to the pile on the other side of the kitchen.

Unpacking, as it turns out, is much more work that it had first appeared to be – despite his and Combeferre’s best efforts (Courfeyrac remained wilfully unhelpful) everything seems to have ended up everywhere anyway. It’s taken all morning for Enjolras to unpack half of what he had taken with him – a part of him is even starting to think it had been _too_ much. Well. Some of it, at least. Perhaps it’s just pride, but Enjolras is equally certain that he’d brought _exactly_ the right amount of plates.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Grantaire complains, now floating several inches off the ground, “I’m the ghost – I’m the one who’s supposed to space out. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras snaps, gathering up his thoughts as he shuffles over towards Kitchen Box 2. Somehow, the thought of a dented saucepan now fills him with terrible fear. “And I wish you’d stop asking me that.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows in faint surprise; if Enjolras didn’t know any better (and he does; Grantaire, as it turns out, is as simple and easy to read as an open book) he might have thought him to be offended. As it is, Grantaire only says, “Sure. OK.” and the conversation is left at that.

It’s another two or so hours before Grantaire interrupts him again – this time in the bathroom, trying with all his might to hang up the shower curtain with the power of telekinesis. It isn’t working.

“You’re very short, aren’t you?” Grantaire observes, watching Enjolras as he jumps up (unsuccessfully) to try and attach the curtain to the hooks there. “Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

So exasperating is this remark that Enjolras finally feels the need to turn and face him. Idiot man. His feet are three inches off the floor.

“You’re a _ghost_ ,” he reiterates, dropping the shower curtain into the bath and choosing instead to drag a hand across his face. “You can’t _move things_.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t!” counters Enjolras hotly. “You don’t have a _body_. You don’t have _hands_. How the hell do you expect to—oh.”

“Oh,” Grantaire agrees, now floating high enough that Enjolras has to crane his neck to look at him. He grips the curtain tightly between two white-knuckled hands. “The shower curtain is not a _person_ , Enjolras. I can touch it well enough.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows fall back down into a frown. It’s a familiar expression. “You can’t touch people?” he echoes. “That seems…”

“Sad?”

“Weirdly specific, but yeah, that too.”

Grantaire smiles, his ragged mop of hair every bit as disarrayed as the frayed cuffs of his jeans. For the first time, Enjolras realises that he isn’t wearing any shoes. Not even socks. He’s a far cry from what Enjolras might have expected a haunted soul to look like – what kind of ghost decidesthey want to haunt the world dressed in a sweater and faded cast-offs? The only mildly spooky thing about him (and to be honest, it’s probably just more of an Enjolras-type thing) are the horrific paint splatters that seem to cover him from head to toe. There’s a smudge of cobalt blue right underneath his chin, Enjolras realises.

“You’re staring,” notes Grantaire dryly, as he finishes hooking the final few loops onto the shower railing. Enjolras glances quickly away from him.

“How does that work?” he asks, half-looking at Grantaire, half-looking out of the window. “With objects, I mean. Did it always work like that?”

Grantaire drifts slowly back down to eye-level (or eye-level enough; he really _is_ quite a bit shorter than Grantaire) and turns to face him. His hands – large hands, milky-skinned, covered in flecks of paint and pencil scratches, lines that run like thoughts all along the coarse dark hair of his forearms – fiddle anxiously with the loose skin of his wrists, as if he’s ever-so-slightly afraid of the answer. Enjolras flicks his gaze away.

“Not always,” Grantaire says at last. “It used to extend to people. After all, I was there at my own—” He leaves the end of his sentence hanging, and then reformulates, “I used to be able to touch people. Now I can’t. I’m not sure how much longer I’m supposed to _be_ here for, to be honest.”

Enjolras frowns at him. Some part of him – a very small part of him, or so he tells himself – thinks it might be sad if Grantaire leaves him as soon as he had joined him. The other, larger part of him is overtly concerned with lunch. He glances down at his rumbling stomach.

“I need to eat,” he says, trying his hardest to keep the awkwardness out of his voice. It creeps in anyway. “Do you… Do you want to come and sit with me?”

Grantaire frowns, but trails obediently after him nonetheless. “There isn’t any food in the fridge,” he says, as Enjolras pads into the kitchen, his scarlet socks slapping against the linoleum – Grantaire, drifting along beside him, is completely silent in comparison. Enjolras allows himself a smile as he cracks open the fridge door.

“True,” he says, reaching in to grab hold of a tinfoil-wrapped package and heading into the front room, “But I have this. My friend made it up for me for the journey over.”

Grantaire wrinkles his nose. “Your only food is a day-old sandwich?”

“It’s a good sandwich.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Enjolras shrugs, sitting down on the settee and peeling away the wrapping. Courfeyrac has made him his favourite – turkey-on-rye with a side-helping of cranberry sauce. He bites into it hungrily, ignoring the pang of homesickness that accompanies the familiar taste.

“Looks nice,” Grantaire comments. “Wish I had friends who made me sandwiches like that.” He’s sat on the sofa with his legs crossed underneath each other, but Enjolras notices that he’s still floating several tiny centimetres above the upholstery. For some reason, the act of it seems to lessen the feeling of homesickness in his gut. He takes another bite of the sandwich, then swallows.

“Courf’s good with food,” he says, watching as Grantaire watches him. “Sandwiches especially. It’s one of his many talents.”

“Courf?”

“My friend.” Enjolras clarifies through a mouthful of turkey. He swallows quickly. “Sorry. Most of my friends are still in France. I’m an international student,” he adds, as Grantaire continues to stare. His blue eyes are almost alarmingly precise – where Grantaire’s ghost is grey, they shine bright, like jewels set fast in a mask of firm indifference. They are what betray his passion for life, Enjolras thinks.

Grantaire does not look away, however. “You’re from France?” he asks. “ _Vous parlez en français_?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “ _Bien sûr_? Yes? The name isn’t exactly a misnomer.”

Grantaire seems to find this extremely funny. He lets out a bark of a laugh, slapping at the corner of his knee with a hand. He continues in French: “You sound British in English. It’s fine. But still—” He casts a curious eye over the last crumbs of Enjolras’ sandwich. “Did you assume the name ‘Grantaire’ was equally misleading?”

“I—oh.” Enjolras stares at him, suddenly embarrassed. “You were… You’re an international student?”

“Were,” Grantaire corrects him – gently. “You’re from Paris, aren’t you? I can tell.”

“And you?”

“Somewhere much less romantic than Paris.”

“Right,” answers Enjolras, sensing that Grantaire doesn’t wish to be prompted further. “Well…”

“ _Et tes amis_?”

Enjolras frowns. “ _Quelle_?”

“Your friends. Courf and the others. You left them all behind?”

Enjolras stands up to brush the rest of the sandwich crumbs from his lap. “They study there,” he answers, still in French, surprised to find himself honest, “Courfeyrac’s busy doing Courfeyrac things, Combeferre’s got his medical degree to worry about…” He looks up suddenly at Grantaire. “I didn’t even think I’d get into Manchester Uni. I’m still not sure how I did it.”

Grantaire gives him an amused look. “Don’t tell me you came here for the night-life.”

“It’s a good university!”

“Sure,” Grantaire replies, muttering into his open palm. He glances around at the room. “Busy though. And kind of expensive – to live on your own.” He raises an eyebrow at Enjolras. “This father of yours – does he have a lot of money?”

But Enjolras isn’t going to rise to that. Instead, he folds his arms and says, “You lived here too, didn’t you? When you were alive.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “With a _flatmate_ , Enjolras. With a job. Besides,” he adds, muttering, “the university fund paid for most of it. And it’s not as if it’s going to matter now I’m dead.” He looks up again at Enjolras, and for a moment Enjolras swears he can see something else there, something other than laughter in those bright, summer-tinged eyes. He continues on regardless. “You’re here by yourself. You don’t have a job – or so I assume. What are you even studying, anyway? Science?”

Enjolras glares at him. “Politics,” he says, still with his arms folded. “Politics and Journalism. It’s what I care about – nothing to do with what anyone else wants. And I’m more than prepared to pay it off by myself—”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says softly. He reaches up to place a hand on Enjolras’ forearm – and then curses in irritation, sweeping back his hand as if the action had never been. Enjolras will not be the one to bring it up. “Enjolras, it’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with having someone else pay your tuition fees.”

“You certainly seem to think so.”

“I’m dead,” the ghost replies airily, “You shouldn’t take everything I say seriously. I’m a cynic at heart, that’s all.”

“You don’t have a heart.”

Grantaire glances down at his semi-translucent body, then laughs. “True,” he says, “All too true.”

“How did you die, Grantaire?”

Grantaire looks up at him sharply – then immediately seems to soften, his crinkled smile turning ochre. Or perhaps it’s just paint. “Later,” he says quietly. “Ask me later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been thinking about this fic all day, so I thought I better try and write some more of it whilst I’m still feeling that inspiration. Enjolras and Grantaire irritate each other regardless of what universe they’re in. It’s just fact.
> 
> Also, a note on British university tution fees: If you don’t earn all that much, the government will pay your tuition fees for you, and you end up paying it back once you get a job with a salary above a certain amount. Just to clarify for any US followers. I’m afraid I can’t vouch for anywhere else, but I know it’s different there.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments/kudos so far. You’re the best. :)


	3. Marigold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras finds out what happened to Grantaire. It isn’t pleasant, and it isn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has to wait so long for an update on this fic: You have my sincere apologies. Enjoy this angsty 4k atrocity.

“Hey! Goldilocks!” a voice calls after him just after class, as Enjolras stumbles through the door with his hands full of folders. “You want a hand with that?”

Enjolras turns by force of habit and almost drops his laptop. He’s met with the face of sanguine-looking man with a shock of carrot-coloured hair who’s also possibly quite anaemic. His first thought is that the man somewhat reminds him of Marius. The second is that this man is carrying far less folders than him.

He takes three binders off Enjolras without even blinking and holds out his hand. “I’m Mavot,” he says, his smile both easy and easily-given, a gift that Enjolras only slightly resents, “You live on campus?”

Mavot is not from Manchester. Enjolras can tell because his vowels are longer than a triple-decker bus.

“I have an apartment—flat,” he adds quickly, seeing Mavot’s amused expression. He gestures with one hand towards the row of houses visible just beyond the campus border, and his laptop wobbles precariously in his arms. “You don’t—you don’t have to help me, you know.”

Mavot grins at him again. His teeth are ridiculously straight. “You’re an optimistic undergrad,” he says cheerfully, “Not many people turn up to lectures this early in the morning. Politics student?”

“Joint honours,” Enjolras murmurs as they turn a corner. His laptop seems to be shivering in its case. When Mavot slaps him on the back, he very nearly drops it again.

“Thought so. You’ve got that look about you—all up and arms to try and save the world. ‘Course,” he adds, stopping for a moment to juggle Enjolras’ folders, “I’m with you there. I’m enjoying doing journalism more than I ever thought I would.”

Enjolras makes a vague sound of affirmation. He doesn’t know who this guy is, but he knows for certain that he’d rather not be having this conversation. Something’s been bothering him the entire time he was in the lecture hall and in the subsequent interview, and he’s fairly certain it has something to do with Grantaire and his death.

“You hear me, buddy?”

He shakes himself back to attention with a guilty shrug. “Sorry,” he says, turning back to Mavot, just as they approach No. 32, “What did you say?”

“I was asking you what your name was—say, do you live __here__?” he asks. Enjolras turns and looks at him blankly. The door of No. 32 isn’t particularly outstanding or anything – it’s red, and it needs another coat of paint, but that’s about all Enjolras can say about it that’s remarkable. He angles his head back towards Mavot.

“My name’s Enjolras. What’s wrong with the house?”

Mavot placidly accepts another folder as Enjolras reaches into his bag for the house key. “Nothing, man, it’s just…” His voice trails off as the lock clicks and the door swings open. “Which flat are you living in?”

Enjolras gathers the folders in his arms. “Uh, 4A? Is that a problem?”

Mavot folds his arms and frowns like he’s genuinely worried about Enjolras’ safety. Enjolras taps his foot.

“Mavot?”

“They rent you this place cheap?” Mavot says suddenly, all in a rush, like he’s desperate to get it all out. “Man, that’s fucked. It’s haunted, you know? The last people in there only stayed for a couple of weeks. Couldn’t stand the atmosphere, apparently.”

The first part of Mavot’s statement makes him laugh, though not out loud. The second part, however, makes him anxious. He glances sideways at the man beside him.

“Atmosphere?”

“Nice of them to mention it, right? No, apparently that flat is full of crap. All sorts of crap you wouldn’t want to run into. Maybe you should get a transfer.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “My stuff’s already in there. I’m sure I’ll manage.” Privately, he thinks about the word ‘atmosphere.’ It doesn’t seem like Grantaire. Grantaire isn’t scary enough to be a proper ghost. But of course, everyone – perhaps even and especially Grantaire – has their bad days. He makes a mental note to ask Grantaire about it later.

“Are you sure, dude? Because it’s definitely haunted. Like, the other girl who used to live there—”

“I’ll manage,” Enjolras repeats, a little more firmly. He takes the last of the files from Mavot and removes his key from the lock. “Thanks for the help. Maybe I’ll see you around campus?”

Mavot’s expression remains clouded. “Yeah, sure thing. Take care of yourself Enjolras.”

Enjolras shuts the door on him, feeling a little guilty about how grateful he feels to finally have Mavot gone. He’s never liked extroverted people, not on a one-to-one basis. Tucking his key into his pocket, he ascends the stairs not-quite-rid of that same feeling of unease. Atmosphere. He’ll have to get to the bottom of that. And why is he the only one who can see Grantaire?

Mavot thinks Grantaire is going to murder him in his sleep. The sentiment almost startles another laugh out of him as he begins to climb the stairs.

*

When Enjolras enters the flat, the lights are on and the kettle is boiling. He thinks about what Mavot might have said if he’d come upstairs with him – if he’d known that the most terrifying thing Grantaire has ever done to Enjolras is to make a cup of tea with his own semi-translucent hands. The tea had turned cold as soon as Grantaire had tried to pour it, but Enjolras hadn’t minded. It’s nice to have a ghost that doesn’t mind his company – who even likes his company, in fact. He’s only been here a few days and he’s already made a friend. It doesn’t really matter to him that the friend is dead, or won’t be here forever.

Enjolras’ chest constricts when he thinks of that. Best not to think of Grantaire leaving him on such short notice. He doesn’t want Grantaire to know he feels attached. It might stop him from leaving when he’s supposed to, and Enjolras wouldn’t want to stop Grantaire from being wherever it is that he’s supposed to be.

Just as Enjolras’ brain has decided to think about what Grantaire might’ve been like as a __living__ person, the ghost himself drifts into the hallway, flower-patterned mug in hand. He’s staring at it with a slightly puzzled expression. Enjolras makes an effort to keep his expression martyred.

“I think it’s gone cold,” Grantaire says, still frowning at the tea. “Was the last one cold? Maybe I shouldn’t be touching it.”

Enjolras takes it from him anyway, trying not to shiver as Grantaire’s wind-coloured fingers collide with his own. It feels like touching a corpse, and he doesn’t want to think about Grantaire being dead in that way – __really__ dead, alone and buried six feet under in dirty brown soil. Grantaire isn't dead, not really – or at least, not in the traditional sense. He can’t be, not when he’s stood in Enjolras’ hallway watching him with a carefully neutral expression, arms folded and eyebrows hitched high enough to put any of Enjolras’ more sarcastic friends to shame. It takes Enjolras another second to realise that he’s upset.

“Did I make you drink cold tea?” Grantaire asks him, like it’s the same thing as drinking rat poison. “You drank the last one. I thought it was OK.”

Enjolras looks at him innocently. “It was fine.”

“No, it wasn’t. I made you drink cold tea, didn’t I?”

“It could’ve been iced tea. It could’ve been that.”

Grantaire pulls his arms a little tighter around him. “I hate being cold,” he mutters in an undertone, low enough that Enjolras almost doesn’t hear him. “It feels like being in a morgue.” To Enjolras, he asks, “Why do you have so many folders?”

“Overcompensation,” Enjolras replies quickly. He thinks back to Mavot at the door and adds, “I met a postgraduate on the way here. He said this place was haunted.”

As predicted, Grantaire smiles and even laughs a little. Enjolras sighs in quiet relief as he follows him (still drifting) into the bedroom. The place actually looks more human now, which is a relief, though his own precious mementos are still scattered across the bare mattress. They look different, somehow, and Enjolras wonders for a moment if Grantaire has been looking through them, trying to parse out his flatmate’s identity based on cinema stubs and theatre tickets, slices of his life that have only ever been important to one person: himself.

The question is answered as Grantaire floats over towards a small stack of photographs, sinking down onto the bed without touching it and parsing through the memories like he’s been doing this all his life. Enjolras doesn’t stop him. He’s entitled to look at Enjolras’ knick-knacks if he so chooses – though private, there’s nothing in there that shouldn’t be seen by others, and Enjolras doesn’t mind lending a little of his privacy to Grantaire if it means he’ll forget about the cold tea incident. He sips at the one in his hand without thinking about it and shudders. There’s ice on the rim of the cup, and the handle – clearly, Grantaire’s overall ghostly temperature is much lower than Enjolras first thought. He makes a note to check the plumbing in the bathroom later for frozen pipes and turns towards the wardrobe, and suddenly realises that Grantaire is speaking to him.

“Sorry?”

“I __said__ ,” Grantaire repeats with emphasis, though clearly not annoyed, “I guess the rumours get things right sometimes, huh? Was this guy scared shitless or something?”

Mavot and Grantaire would make a good pair, Enjolras thinks. He chooses not to answer that last question.

“Do they know?” he asks Grantaire instead. “The other students? Do they know you’re haunting this place?”

Grantaire looks at him sideways. “Not just this place,” he mutters, as if Enjolras had insulted him in some way, “I can haunt a lot more than just this flat. But it’s comfortable here.” Seeing Enjolras’ expression, he adds, “They have a rough idea, yeah. I think it was in the papers.”

“Your death?”

Grantaire’s face is peculiarly impassive in this moment. “My death, yeah.” he replies. “Someone put in an obituary for me. And there was an article. A newspaper column.” He flicks over to the next picture in the pile of photographs resting at his feet – then freezes. His eyes are wide and staring. Slowly, he raises his head to look at Enjolras.

“Who’s this?”

Enjolras takes the photograph from him with a growing sense of unease. It’s the same picture that Marius, Cosette and Éponine took in the __Jardin des Plantes__ – but it’s Éponine’s face that Grantaire is staring at in particular. He looks back at Grantaire.

“Éponine?” he asks. Grantaire blinks.

“Yeah. Éponine Thénardier?” When Enjolras nods, Grantaire shakes his head in disbelief. “God. I forgot she went back to France. I forgot about her entirely.” Looking up into Enjolras’ confused face, he adds, “She was my flatmate. She was at my funeral, actually.”

Something about the detached, almost dreamy way he says it makes Enjolras shiver in a way he can’t quite explain. He remembers what Mavot said earlier about atmosphere, and then he remembers, quite forcefully, the fact that Grantaire is now no longer human.

Grantaire hums absently, rising about two inches above the mattress. He doesn’t seem to see Enjolras any longer; he’s lost in memory now, drifting down familiar streets and peddling familiar wares.

“I was standing right next to her, but she didn’t see me. Maybe she didn’t want to.” He looks up quickly at Enjolras. “Is she happy, back in France? She never stopped worrying about her siblings back when she lived here.”

Enjolras looks back at Grantaire and tries to imagine him and Éponine sharing a flat together. The image works. He can see them getting on stupendously well, if he’s honest with himself – like two puzzle pieces, fitting seamlessly into one. It’s a curiously sad imagine considering one is now dead and the other far away.

“Yeah, she’s happy.” he says. His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but that doesn’t seem to bother Grantaire. He’s staring at Enjolras as intently as Grantaire probably ever stares at anything. “Marius – one of our friends – he asked her along to one of our meetings several months back. That’s how we met.”

Grantaire frowns briefly. It brings the humanity back into his face. “Meetings?”

Enjolras ducks down his head. There’s no reason to, but the thought of telling Grantaire about __Les Amis__ somehow makes him nervous.

“We run a literacy advocacy group,” he says, playing idly with hands for a moment before returning his gaze to Grantaire. “Courf, ’Ferre and I. __Les Amis de l’ABC__. We’ve been working on improving Paris’ literacy levels – or at least I was. They’re still a thing, the meetings. It feels odd not to be there.”

The last admission just seems to slip out, but Grantaire lets it pass without much inspection. He drops the photograph onto the bed with an almost undetectable sigh. “’Ponine’s helping with all that?” he asks. There’s a slight undercurrent of wonder in his voice. “Huh. Well, go her. I’m proud.”

“She won the custody case over Gavroche and Azelma,” Enjolras says, remembering. Grantaire’s head snaps up. “That’s who you mean, right? Her little brother and sister?”

Grantaire has a strange expression on his face. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“I remember her telling Marius,” Enjolras says. “They’re not living with their parents anymore. It was a couple of weeks ago when I last saw her at the Café Musain.”

Grantaire eyes are angled towards the mattress. He doesn’t seem to want to look at Enjolras any longer.

“Good,” he says at last, every bright line of his body subdued and suddenly indistinct, “They didn’t deserve that.” He looks up at Enjolras with something like feral abandonment in his eyes. “Did she not – she never mentioned me, then?”

“I – I don’t think so,” Enjolras replies. He feels embarrassed without really knowing why. It’s something to do with the way Grantaire is looking at him, hyper-focused and incredibly, decisively inhuman. The hand holding the tea spasms briefly as a sudden bite of fear threatens to overcome him. “I don’t know her that well, to be honest. She only started coming to the Musain a couple of months ago.” A frown wrinkles his forehead as he realises – finally – what it is about Grantaire that’s been bothering him for so long. “Grantaire, you – you said you can haunt other places, right? Why aren’t you in France?”

Grantaire’s face becomes stormy, purple-hued. Slashes of lightning – or is it fear? – flash in the jet-black pupils of his eyes, standing in stark contrast with his pale-bodied form, so very absent and clouded in this small, confined space. For a moment, Enjolras finds himself terrified by the notion that Grantaire is a bomb waiting to go off, ready to explode at the slightest prod or enquiry. But then his face calms, the sky turning blue again, though his mouth remains pressed in a harsh, moody line.

“They left my body here,” he says, slowly, as if he’s confessing to some terrible crime, “I can’t go home. When my mother and sister came here for the funeral – well, I haven’t seen them since. Éponine quit Manchester after I died. I haven’t seen her since then either. And she wouldn’t even __look__ at me at the funeral.”

“Could she see you?” Enjolras asks. It’s the wrong question to ask. Grantaire turns on him like a rabid dog, the line of his mouth jerking to attention like a string pulled by a needle. There’s nothing gentle about him in this moment – just chaos. It’s like the ghost in him is taking over, rewriting over all the other memories, good and bad, happy or otherwise. Enjolras takes a small step back as Grantaire stands up from the mattress.

“She could see me,” he mutters, the anger in his stature nought but a void in his voice, “She just didn’t want to. It was the same with my sister. They preferred to think that they were imagining things, that they were going mad. And then they __left__ me.”

Enjolras wonders for a moment whether it might to useful to call up Éponine using his overseas credit, later, to see exactly what Grantaire was like before he died. Or perhaps she would think him equally mad? It’s no good. Only now does he realise the complete truth of what he’s got himself into: nobody is ever going to believe him about Grantaire unless they see him. None of his friends will believe he’s sharing a flat with a ghostly roommate, that that same roommate is making him cups of tea that are both stone-cold and covered in ice. It’s too implausible. Even Combeferre, who strives to be open-minded in all things, would have a hard time believing Enjolras on this one. It’s a terrible position to be in.

It’s a terrible position for Grantaire to be in, too, and only now does Enjolras think he understands why Grantaire is so reluctant to discuss it. Dying can’t be fun. Being left behind can’t be that fun either. Enjolras is the first person to truly __see__ Grantaire in a long time, and he doesn’t want to ruin it, doesn’t want to chase Grantaire away with his barrage of questions and overt eagerness. But that doesn’t mean he can stop himself from asking. He has to ask.

“Grantaire,” he says softly, “What happened to you?”

The words seem to hit Grantaire like a slap. He sinks back down onto the floor, almost up to his ankles in Enjolras’ new rug, his newfound anger dissipating as soon as it had arrived. He looks at Enjolras sadly and says, “I was hit by a car.”

“Hit?”

“Yes. By a drunk driver. Or a drugged driver, at any rate. He was going too fast. The light was on red. I was on my way home from the corner shop. Pint of milk. I saw it afterwards, too. Goddam waste of money. It was all over the pavement. And me, of course.”

__And me, of course._ _

“Did they catch them? The driver?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Éponine went to the police. She didn’t find out till after I – after I died. It was on the way to hospital. I was watching them – pumping at this ridiculous mess of a body. It wasn’t even mine anymore. They didn’t seem to understand that. It was just a body. Just a corpse.” He shakes his head morosely. “But no, they never found them. I didn’t see the car until it hit me. It was going too fast. And I wasn’t exactly—” Another shake of the head. “I was pretty drunk myself. Doesn’t matter. I was about to be kicked out anyway and that was about all that mattered to me at the time.” His eyes flicker towards Enjolras, looking him up and down, eventually resting on the half-frozen cup in his hands. “I didn’t realise how important it was, you know? I didn’t look after myself the way I should’ve done. And now I’m dead. I really fucking wish I wasn’t dead. It’s nothing like what everyone thinks it’s supposed to be. It’s hell.”

Enjolras says nothing for a moment – he isn’t entirely sure if there’s anything he can say. Eventually, Grantaire looks away from him and mutters, “Doesn’t matter, anyway. Just ignore me. You just – reminded me, that’s all. I don’t like to think about what I am. I can’t get out of it.”

There’s nothing Enjolras can say to this either, so he doesn’t. Instead, he clears his throat and asks, “At the funeral…”

“Yes?”

“You mentioned yesterday about being able to touch people. That you were there, at your own funeral. You can’t touch people anymore. Maybe that’s a sign? You might be able to leave someday.”

Grantaire stares at him balefully. A blank, passive Grantaire is much scarier than one crackling with anger, Enjolras decides. He isn’t sure which one he prefers. They both seem to stare at him in equal amounts.

“I’m never leaving,” he says miserably, “I’ll be stuck here forever. And then you’ll leave and I’ll be on my own again…”

Enjolras plonks the mug in his hands down on the chest of drawers and reaches forward to wrap his hands around Grantaire’s. He can’t touch him truly, and holding on to Grantaire’s spectral form feels like being doused constantly in several buckets of water, but it’s enough for the time being. Ghosts are naturally melancholy, but Enjolras can’t help but feel that Grantaire is probably more melancholy than most.

Grantaire leans into him – a curious feeling ripples through Enjolras’ shoulders – and sighs into his collarbone. All of this is unfair, he thinks. He would’ve liked to have known Grantaire so very badly in life – but that doesn’t mean he can’t make a good friendship out of their time here together now. But touch would be nice. In times like these, touch is absolutely essential. He wants to hug Grantaire, to tell him that everything’s all right, but he can’t. Being all right is impossible when you’re dead, he thinks. After that, nothing can ever be right again.

Enjolras understands the atmosphere now. The atmosphere is not scary or cold or even frightening. The atmosphere is sad. Unbearably so.

Grantaire is pitifully good at being a ghost. Sadness is woven into the very fabric of his soul, like a cloak or even a second skin. It makes Enjolras’ insides squirm with the need to help him. He __needs__ to. This isn’t just about having a fun roommate anymore. This is about Grantaire’s __life__.

Grantaire’s voice, when close to him, is hardly a voice at all. Enjolras can hear fractures in it, and flickers, that can barely be ascribed to the sun-like warmth of Grantaire’s inner soul, that paltry part of him that never gets given a voice. Grantaire is capable of being incredibly happy – or he was. Now, those bright blue eyes are the only thing that remains of a life so brightly-lived. It makes his heart ache.

“Enjolras, you need to move.”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras replies, though he isn’t. The air in front of him is laced with his own icy breaths. “It’s fine, Grantaire.”

“There’s ice on your face.”

Enjolras __does__ push back at that, dropping down onto the mattress behind him and wiping a hand across his cheek. His fingers come away laced with frosted ice crystals. His eyes feel dry and unusually sharp in their sockets. He blinks as they begin watering. Grantaire comes to sit beside him with a mournful sound.

“See? It’s useless.”

“It’s not useless,” Enjolras replies patiently, “And besides, I’m here for now, aren’t I? There must be something we can do about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” __Like find out who killed you__ , he adds in his head, but he doesn’t say it, because he thinks it will make Grantaire angry, and he doesn’t think Grantaire has enough energy left in him for any more proper anger. “Were you buried? Cremated?”

“Buried.”

“Oh.” Enjolras says. “I thought we could dig your ashes up, maybe. Take them back to France.”

Grantaire smiles wryly at him. “That’s sweet. Stealing corpses on my behalf. A regular Frankenstein, you are.”

“I can’t drag your __body__ across the Channel!” Enjolras protests. Then he adds, “God, this is really weird.”

“Is that the first time you’ve realised that?”

“You – you have a body somewhere. But you’re here. I don’t – I don’t like it. Why didn’t your family take you back to France?”

The ghost turns his head away, making to stand up, but Enjolras holds out a hand to stop him. There’s nothing __to__ stop him, but Grantaire sits down anyway. He looks mulish. “There were… complications. The police wanted to—investigate. It took too long. It would’ve made a mess of things, to go all that way after that.”

“I still don’t see why you weren’t cremated.”

“I’m fairly certain you can’t take dead people on planes, Enj.”

For the time being, Enjolras ignores the nickname. He’ll think about it later, when everything’s said and done, but for now he just sits there, drinking in the silence and the terrible atmosphere that death is so very able to create. It feels miserable, like drinking first thing in the morning, consumed by anxiety and terrible wrath. Eventually he gives up on the idea of body-snatching and sighs into his own shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, Grantaire.”

“Don’t be,” the ghost replies. He looks perplexed by Enjolras’ worry, which is almost as bad as his sadness. “It’s not your fault.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer him. He looks down at the mementos scattered across the bed instead, his eyes falling on a picture of himself, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He looks happy – happier than he has any right to be, really, considering the present circumstances and all he has yet to earn. He picks up the photo and plays absently with one of its crooked corners. How careless, to have bent it on the trip here. Enjolras has never been good at taking care of his things. There are days where it drives him to distraction, but today it just makes him feel sad. Grantaire’s mood, it would seem, is tangible enough that he can feel it sinking through his sternum, filling his chest with a deep, unearthly ache. There’s something else there too, something he doesn’t quite want to examine, but he picks it up anyway, unfurling the feeling and allowing it to blossom inside him, making a home in the very marrow of his bones.

The feeling is this: Grantaire should not be like this. Grantaire should not be alone. There’s something about this day, something horribly familiar and repetitive, that seems to suggest that this is an event that shouldn’t have happened, a fracture in the timeline that should never have been. Grantaire should have been with them all from the beginning. What a happy beginning that would have been – Grantaire, at home amongst his many friends, laughing and drinking coffee alongside Enjolras at the Café Musain. It feels fated, somehow. But this time, fate has got it wrong.

But there __is__ a way to fix this, he thinks. A way to fix this mess without telling Grantaire. If the police investigated the hit-and-run, well, perhaps Enjolras can too.

It’s a bold thought, but not an impossible one. Enjolras has never been afraid of trying.

He stands up and picks up the cold cup of tea. Fate may have failed him once, but it isn’t going to happen again. Enjolras is sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: I am SO sorry for the delay in updates. Real life has been pretty hectic lately, but it was fun to take a day off from exam prep and try writing instead. Considering I wrote 4k without a break, I’d say it was a much-needed writing-bug that I had to quash haha.
> 
> Hopefully updates will be less sporadic after this! I’ve been waiting for about a month now for my new (portable) laptop to arrive in the mail, and when it does that should hopefully make writing on the go a lot easier. I have lots more ideas now for what kind of direction this fic is going to go in (as well as an already-typed ending!) so hopefully there will be more speed involved over the next few months. Fingers crossed!
> 
> This chapter is really big, but I couldn’t find any way of splitting it, so here it is. Be sure to leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed reading! It really helps to motivate me on the bad writing days.
> 
> Also, if you wondering “Has this fic changed tense?” the answer is yes, yes it has. Apparently I’m devoted to writing in the continuous present now. It felt too weird to be writing in the past. I’ve also converted the first two chapters into the present tense, though not particularly thoroughly, so if there’s any mistakes in there that is why. Désolé!


	4. Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras doesn’t realise how clueless he is until he really thinks about what he’s done. Promises like this are hard to keep.
> 
> (In which Enjolras has a minor crisis.)

Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s doing this.

It’s a thought he’s had often over the past few weeks, and he still can’t seem to find an explanation that makes sense – this is just what he does, isn’t it? Helps out, or tries to, gnawing at the root of the problem until eventually the whole thing goes away. Helping is what he’s good at. At least, that’s what he’d thought himself good at, up until now. Now he’s not so sure.

Real change, real activism, he reminds himself, takes time. But Grantaire isn’t some cause to champion – doesn’t even come close to it, even. He’s… well, he’s _Grantaire_ , and Enjolras can’t seem to come up with any category to describe him as, can’t think of any relevant explanation at all, in fact, when it comes to helping Grantaire with his desperate situation. And that’s the problem.

He doesn’t just _want_ to help Grantaire. He knows that he has to. He doesn’t question it – it’s the sort of thing that the Universe itself would want him to do. It’s natural. That’s all.

That’s what he keeps telling himself, at any rate, and if his deep subconsciousness doesn’t agree, well, that’s not his problem to worry about. Instead, Enjolras keeps his mind far away from Grantaire’s existence – from his sad, small, lonely frame – and thinks about his death instead. He thinks hard, but he doesn’t seem able to come to any solid enough conclusion. The thoughts just keep going round and round his head. Grantaire’s face – the memory of that face, so clear and vivid, as if Grantaire himself is standing right in front of him – weighs heavy on his mind. Those sad brows. Those sharp eyes. He can’t escape the memory, can’t quite estrange himself from that feeling of loss, and yet—

And yet he knows he must. Enjolras has a job to do. He can’t get bogged down in the very semantics of his mission, not if he really wants to make a difference. It’s the same with anything: if you let it get to you, if you allow all those different feelings to get inside of you, you’ll lose. It’s as simple as that, he decides. He has to stop having this argument with himself, over and over and over. It’s not helpful. It’s not productive.

It can’t help him, this feeling, and it can’t help Grantaire. Enjolras tries his best to make himself let go of it.

When it doesn’t, he tries another tactic, and pulls a half-finished essay rough out of his bag. Fine, whatever. He’ll come up with a plan. He’s never failed to come up with one before.

(He thinks of how much better this would be if he had someone to help him, someone sharp and brave like Combeferre, or ferocious and kind like Feuilly. They’ve always been good at making difficult decisions. There’s a reason he trusts them. There’s a reason he trusts all of them.)

Enjolras sighs and opens his laptop. He has other things to focus on, he knows he has, but now he’s thinking of home alongside Grantaire and the terrible secret unfurling inside of him like a head wound. He grits his teeth. He adjusts the neck of his hoodie, shapeless and black, rendering him unseen amongst the occupants of the café he’s sitting in, and wonders how on Earth he ever convinced himself that this was a good idea. It’s not. Enjolras is a terrible person on his own. It’s other people that make him great. It always has been. Why has it taken until know for him to be able to see that? The world makes no damn sense.

His next thought is eclipsed by the shadow that falls across the table’s edge. Enjolras looks up – and finds himself staring back into the face of Mavot, his untamed red hair looking somehow even more unruly than the last time Enjolras saw him. Mavot’s face splits into an uncertain grin – half human, half stumbling, newborn gazelle. Enjolras sighs inwardly.

“Hey, buddy.” Mavot says, amicable as ever, “How’re you holding up?”

He holds out his hand, and Enjolras, with only a tinge of regret, reaches out to shake it. He doesn’t react when Mavot sits down in the seat opposite. It would be rude, and his reluctance to chat with what is seemingly his only friend on campus would probably raise some questions. He closes the lid of his laptop. Whatever. It’s not like he had any plans to write anything anyway. Not with all that noise buzzing around inside his head.

“I’m all right,” he says, saying something, revealing nothing, hoping that it will satisfy Mavot’s curiosity. It doesn’t. Mavot leans forward, his elbows balanced on the coffee table, and gives Enjolras a long, hard look. So much for remaining evasive, he thinks bitterly. Mavot taps his fingers against the side of the table.

“You, uh, you seen anything strange in that flat of yours recently?”

Enjolras doesn’t understand why he sounds so nervous. It’s not as if he _looks_ like he’s been frightened to death. His hair’s always been that way. It’s natural. Hell, he _likes_ it that way. This is the kind of vanity that Enjolras relies on.

“No,” he says, hoping that his voice is even, that it doesn’t betray the sudden feeling of unease in his gut, churning at the thought of Grantaire, alone and afraid in the flat without escape, “No, nothing like that. I don’t think those rumours have anything to them, really.”

The sentence sounds jilted, even to his ears. Mavot leans a little further forward. His eyes are incredibly green, and sharp like a cat’s. He might be completely unsubtle about some things, but Enjolras knows he isn’t an idiot. He has to be careful here.

“You sure?” Mavot ventures. His expression is wary, twisted slightly, as if he’s not sure how to react to Enjolras’ flippancy. That’s fair enough. Half the time, Enjolras isn’t sure how to react to himself either. He quirks his eyebrows at Mavot, making an effort to lighten his tone.

“I’m sure,” he says, “And if there _is_ something there – and I’m certain there isn’t – it doesn’t seem to be malicious. I mean, if there was an angry ghost in my flat I would definitely have noticed, don’t you think?”

For a moment, Mavot looks almost cross. Then his face clears again. “I wasn’t – I never said anything about _angry_.” he counters, “Just… It gets heavy in there sometimes, all right? I knew the last couple living there. One of them was a friend of my brother’s. It made them feel, I don’t know, real down on their luck, all the time, every time. Wouldn’t want you to have to put up with something like that, like, at all. It’d be weighing on my conscience like something nasty. So I just – I thought I’d come and see if you were OK.” It’s the longest Mavot has ever gone on without being interrupted. He looks carefully at Enjolras for a moment before adding, “I mean, it wasn’t on purpose, I know you’re doing work, it’s just—” A brief glance down at the table. “You kind of stand out in a crowd, man. I spotted you walking past and I thought—”

“Mavot, it’s OK,” Enjolras says, trying to reassure him. He’s a little concerned, if he’s being honest with himself, about the level of thought Mavot seems to have put into this. In a way, it makes him smile to know that there’s someone out there thinking of him. But that doesn’t mean he can let Mavot in on the secret. It would be too risky, too dangerous. Better to keep Grantaire’s story to himself, he decides. Unless…

“Do you, uh, know anything about the person who used to live there?” he asks, as innocently as he can. Enjolras is not so good at looking innocent, now he considers it. He isn’t Marius. But he tries his best. “Like, who’s supposed to be haunting the flat. Did you know them?”

Mavot’s face, gloomy at first, rapidly quicksilvers into thoughtfulness. “I have this friend,” he says slowly, “They had lectures together, sometimes. Apparently the guy was an art major,” he adds. This isn’t new information; Enjolras could have guessed as much himself from Grantaire’s dishevelled appearance. The fact that he decided to take a _degree_ in art, well, perhaps that’s something else. Grantaire doesn’t strike Enjolras as the academic type, but then he supposes he’s not one to judge, considering he’s only ever known him in death. Of course he’s going to be despondent. As a ghost, is there really any other way to be?

Enjolras puts his hands in his lap, where Mavot is less likely to see them twitching. He’s nervous, but he shouldn’t be nervous. He really can’t afford to be nervous in this moment.

“An art major, huh,” he says, like he’s only vaguely interested. He frowns briefly, as if he’s only just thought of the question. “Who’s the friend?”

“He’s called Pretot,” Mavot replies, his face almost impossible to read. “Listen, Enjolras, I really don’t think—”

“You really shouldn’t worry,” Enjolras says again, “It’s fine. I’m fine. If I need any help I’ll be sure to ask you, but—”

Mavot quickly cuts across him. He’s all for efficiency, it seems, though perhaps that’s slightly hypocritical considering how Enjolras chopped off the end of his last sentence. “That’s all I want, man, look,” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, and hastily scribbles his name and number on it. He hands it to Enjolras with barely-concealed relief. “Just – call me if you need anything, yeah? University can get tricky, and my first year sucked enough without, like, sharing my apartment with a ghost. I just want you to be careful.”

Enjolras carefully doesn’t flinch. Mavot is probably as close to the truth now as any one of the flat’s previous owners, and yet he’s so far away from it that it’s almost ridiculous. Grantaire isn’t _like_ that – or at least, he’s not like that on purpose. Enjolras knows he’s not. There’s too much good inside of Grantaire to be completely draining. He pretends otherwise, but Enjolras knows he cares too much. He _knows_ it.

“You look knackered, mate,” Mavot adds, as if to prove his point. “Make sure you get some sleep tonight, yeah?”

It’s like having an older brother, Enjolras thinks absently, except this older brother is actually helpful. Mavot is not the asshole he once thought he was. Enjolras suddenly feels bad about making such an assumption.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. His words seem to brighten Mavot like a flower; he perks up, red hair still sticking up in all directions, and smiles warmly across at him. “I – thanks for coming to find me, Mavot. It was nice of you. Really.”

Mavot smiles again as he stands up, but he still looks a little troubled. “No worries,” he replies, his voice just as even as Enjolras’ had been at the start of the conversation. His pallid complexion reveals nothing but his nerves. “I’ll – I’ll see you around. Don’t give up on the lectures.”

“I won’t,” Enjolras promises, and then Mavot is gone. He breathes out slowly. Mavot is just concerned, that’s all. He’s not being nosey, he’s just trying to help out someone who needs it – or who he thinks needs it. There’s nothing malicious about it at all. Mavot is a good person; Enjolras is just paranoid.

And yet, he still thinks there might be something in keeping Grantaire’s ghost a secret. He’s has to be casual about his investigations, otherwise the wrong people are going to get curious. Enjolras doesn’t want anyone to break into his flat. He also doesn’t want Grantaire to find out what he’s doing, not yet; that should be another good reason for keeping things out of the attentions of others. For the first time in his life, it is absolutely necessary to blend into the background.

And then his thoughts revert again. This _isn’t_ like fighting for a cause, not least because Grantaire is a human being with thoughts and feelings of his own. This time, the cause has to be secret. The protest he’s got planned has to remain completely under the radar. Enjolras is alone in this. He has to be; to do otherwise would be to invite upon him almost certain disaster. He has to be calm, and efficient. He has to help fight for this justice as quietly as he can. He won’t be making ripples, and he certainly won’t be making waves. It just isn’t happening.

Enjolras holds the thought in his head and tries to remain committed to it. It’s important, Grantaire is important, and all of this could fall apart at a moment’s notice if he doesn’t exercise the right amount of caution. He has to be sincere in this. He has to.

But, as Mavot had said, he stands out in a crowd. And Enjolras can only remain hidden amongst others for so long.

He goes home not long after Mavot leaves the café, his laptop packed securely in his bag, another hot cup of coffee in his hand. It’ll be all right, he thinks to himself absently. It has to be, in the end.

It’s not a belief he holds with much conviction, and by the time he gets home the feeling in his gut has solidified almost entirely into something else: guilt. He wants to scream. He doesn’t scream. The sound of it would tear into the flat’s painted walls like paper being punched. He barely even responds when Grantaire greets him. Grantaire, like the ghost he is, just assumes that he’s had a bad day. He’s not entirely wrong.

Enjolras needs people – unbearably so. He doesn’t know how he’s going to manage this without them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewrite of the original Chapter 4, because I was desperately unhappy with how it turned out. But, hey, at least exams are over! May be getting back to this soon enough; keep your fingers crossed!
> 
> As always, all comments/kudos are extremely welcome. Nothing is as motivational on the bad writing days as a bit of positivity! :) Also, a massive thank you to everyone who’s had to put up with these very sporadic updates. Real life is crazy sometimes, but at least I can rely on folks’ good patience. It means a whole lot.


	5. Cloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has two secrets. He tells Grantaire one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fairly direct mentions of alcohol use, alcoholism and abuse here, though not in graphic detail. Read safely, folks!

It’s a few weeks before Enjolras has to think about Mavot again. He almost wishes he hadn’t – almost.

“Enjolras? Enjolras!”

Enjolras starts and sits up in the wicker chair, completely disorientated for a moment before he remembers where he is. Of course. He’d been so tired after getting home from yesterday university that he hadn’t even bothered to get undressed – or, for that matter, even bothered to climb into bed. He regrets it now. His back feels broken in at least three different places and he’s still wearing his contacts. Fuck.

(It’s not the first time this has happened, but Enjolras tries not to think about that.)

As he looks up, his eyes land on Grantaire – wide-eyed, tousled-hair Grantaire, his blue eyes piercing, his thinly-translucent body the only thing separating Enjolras and himself from being able to live the lives they ought to – Enjolras will never be able to take him to the café, never be able to even touch him, and it makes his heart tired and sad, a staccato beat drumming inside his head like a mantra. He wants to help; he can’t help. He doesn’t even know where to start. Where do you start?

Grantaire is speaking again; Enjolras drags his eyes towards him and tries not to fall back into sleep. It must be hard, to try and wake someone up when you’re not able to touch them. His heart pushes itself into his throat; an automatic response to fatigue. A nervousness that colours every window of the world. It’s terrifying, to wake up and automatically see void.

“Enjolras!”

“Sorry,” he mutters. He pushes himself up out of the chair, and it’s only then that he realises Grantaire is holding his phone – and, what’s more, that the phone is ringing. He looks at it with a kind of weary apprehension.

“How long has it been ringing?”

“Just answer it!”

Enjolras does, taking the phone from Grantaire’s watery fingers and holding it up to his ear. He doesn’t even look at the caller ID before pressing the button. He’s tired, and there’s no room left in his body for reasonable processing. He isn’t even sure what time it is. Possibly it’s still late in the evening, or maybe very, very early in the morning. With university students, he thinks, it’s hard to say.

The excited voice on the other end of the phone is more than enough of an answer.

“Enjolras!” Mavot’s voice says, and Enjolras’ heart sinks – a jovial Mavot, in his admittedly very limited experience, is never a good sign. He can feel Mavot’s grin through the phone. “How the hell are you doing?”

The greeting strikes him as insincere, even for Mavot, and it’s a moment or two longer before Enjolras realises why: he can hear music thumping in the background on the other end of the line, bass deep and discordant, and a chorus of voices that seem to murmur in accordance with the rising heat. Enjolras has never been one for parties – that is to say, parties full of strangers, cavernous rooms in which the principle of time is neither here nor there – and he doubts that the one Mavot is at is any different, any less wretched and discordant than all the others. Enjolras knows students, having fought the student body in any number of places for any number of years. His stomach clenches to think of it.

Mavot, on the other hand, very clearly enjoys this kind of party. It’s stamped all over his voice.

“I’m fine, Mavot,” he says, keeping his face measured, his vowels clipped. “What do you want?” There’s a trace of accent in his voice he’s too tired to erase. He looks up and allows his eyes to settle on the hovering form of Grantaire, idly examining the dribbling condensation of Enjolras’ bedroom window. He’s definitely listening, and somehow Enjolras feels himself all the more grateful for it. He taps at the screen of his phone, and sighs. It’s almost one in the morning. Typical Mavot.

“Hello?”

The music in the background is unsteady, tripping over itself in its urge to coerce the drunken student body back into its embrace. Mavot is an easily distracted man, and there are several more seconds of muffled talking before he speaks to Enjolras again, glottal stops slightly slurred and his vowels even more prolonged than usual. Enjolras slowly closes his eyes.

“—yeah, yeah, I know, you don’t have to make such a big deal out of it,” Mavot is saying. He coughs into the receiver. “Listen, Enjolras—”

“Yes?”

“Are you doing anything right now? Because, like, I don’t know if you’ve made any friends yet—”

Mavot is actually more manageable when he’s sober, Enjolras thinks. Somehow, it’s not in the least a comforting thought. An age-old memory slides easily into his brain: the reek of whiskey, strong and sour, lying heavy on the tongue of a man that is different from him in almost every respect. Enjolras follows the memory to its conclusion and remembers not to flinch.

Mavot’s voice floats in and out, coagulating with the mess of voices in the background. “—so I mean, you definitely don’t have to, but I thought it’d be a good idea, maybe help you meet some people—”

“Are they all as drunk as you?” Enjolras bites out sharply. He doesn’t mean to, really. It’s just habit. Like his father’s habit – and just as violent, come to that. He swallows, trying to placate himself, and tries, “Where are you, anyway?”

Mavot gives him the address, asks him if he wants to come, and Enjolras abruptly cuts him off. He throws the phone onto the bed and sets about curling up in the wicker chair again when Grantaire says, “Hey, Enj? Are you OK?”

He’s not OK, but he doesn’t say so. Doesn’t have to, really. Enjolras’ breathing is loud and stubborn in his ears. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, face pressed up against the arm of the wicker chair, cushion in his arms. When he looks up, he sees that Grantaire has moved from the windowsill to sit on the bed, more solid than before, but just as ghostly as every iteration of Grantaire’s spirit has been so far. He looks overtly concerned about Enjolras’ minor temper tantrum.

“Are you sure?” he asks. Enjolras sits up a little straighter, fatigue nestled in between his ribs, wrapping his arms about the pale blue cushion like it’s some kind of pitiful azure lifeline. Everything is dull in the dark. He looks across at Grantaire, eyelids weighted, exhaustion huddled in his gut. He’s only been here a few weeks or so. It’s OK not to have friends. It’s OK not to want to touch alcohol, any alcohol, after—

Beneath his sweater, his heart rate increases tenfold. Enjolras swears – loudly. “Fuck,” he says, with feeling. He stares resolutely at his midriff, examining the feeling now glued to his chest. “How many times did he call?”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Grantaire, please.” he says tiredly. After a moment, he adds, “He was just – it was a party. A party full of stupid drunken Neanderthals and their stupid drunken—”

Grantaire interrupts him, swiftly. “Are you having a panic attack?” he asks. The softness of his voice makes Enjolras ache. He tries to ignore it.

“I—no,” he lies, chest erratic, head erratic, closed fists bunched up in the hem of his sweatshirt and trembling nonetheless. He’s old enough to deal with this, now. He’s old enough not to let these things overcome him. Not like this. Not with his lips trembling and his eyes watering, blurring the darkness, blurring everything. Enjolras grits his teeth, unclasping his hands and running them haphazardly through his hair, closing his eyes, opening them again, begging them, silently, to allow the world to stop spinning. It never works. He hates that about himself. It never works.

A wall of cold melts suddenly into him, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch. He’s too used to the sensation by now – Grantaire, his watery form pressed up against Enjolras’ jeans, holding onto him the only way he knows how. It’s all pointless, really. But it calms his heart down. Against all odds, it does that. Enjolras has never liked to be touched, when he’s like this, although he’s never minded the proximity. Grantaire is the perfect candidate. Grantaire is the perfect candidate in a lot of ways. He sighs into the invisibility.

“I can’t touch you,” Grantaire says, seemingly able to read his thoughts, “but somehow, I don’t think you’d want me to. Are you doing the breathing thing?”

The breathing thing. Bless Grantaire, honestly. “This doesn’t normally happen,” he manages, though that’s also a lie. Usually, there’s just no-one around to see. No-one but Combeferre, and only on very rare occasions does Enjolras let Combeferre know that he has a problem of this kind. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right.

 _You’re supposed to be better_ , he tells himself, but the rest of him doesn’t seem to want to listen.

Suddenly, Grantaire’s touch becomes significantly more corporeal. He glances down to see that the ghost has grabbed a hold of his watch – and, by extension, Enjolras’ wrist. It feels odd to be grounded by a ghost. It doesn’t seem particularly logical. But Enjolras’ life seems to be past logic by this stage. If he thinks too hard about it, he might start to laugh – and if he starts to laugh, he might never stop. That, if nothing else, would certainly alert Grantaire to the fact that something is going on. It would tell him – quite unintentionally – two things that Enjolras is by now trying desperately to keep hidden. The first is simple – he has to find Grantaire’s killer, quietly and behind his back, without ever having him find out. At first, that had seemed easy enough. But even now, weeks later, he has nothing to answer for it. Just gossip – nothing of actual help. Especially not from Mavot.

And the second?

He feels a little light-headed, Grantaire holding onto him like that. It’s only partly to do with the panic attack, he thinks distantly. But Grantaire can’t ever find out about that. Enjolras just won’t allow it.

He draws himself back into the present, back into the voice of Grantaire, smooth and soft and undeniably there despite the rest of it. This doesn’t bode well for Enjolras’ ribcage.

“Don’t know why I didn’t think of that before,” he mutters, looking up at Enjolras with a slightly bemused expression on his face. Enjolras isn’t sure what his own face looks like. He hopes it isn’t too terrible. He hopes to whatever is out there that it isn’t too terrible.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s all he can say. Grantaire looks up at him, surprised.

“What for?” he asks. He nose wrinkles, like Enjolras is being genuinely ridiculous. It makes him smile, which has to be against the rules. It has to be.

Enjolras closes his eyes again, trying not to see Grantaire’s face. “It was only a phone call,” he says, his voice very small. Grantaire let out a ghost of a laugh, one without any real heart in it.

“I’m afraid of the dark,” he confers, his voice an undertone, “and I’m dead. We’re all afraid of things we can’t explain—and besides,” he adds, and Enjolras opens his eyes again, watching the smooth movement of his face, the teasing lines between his eyebrows, “Panic attacks aren’t logical. Fear isn’t logical.” He pauses for a moment, his face thoughtful. “And memory isn’t logical, either.”

“I’ve been trying to find out who killed you,” Enjolras say, abruptly, suddenly, the words tumbling out of his mouth like charged particles, like they have a life of their own. He saves the “I think I might love you” for later.

Grantaire’s water-coloured fingers tighten around his wristwatch – Enjolras can’t feel the pressure, but he can see the tension layered in Grantaire’s face. He looks up at Enjolras with genuine confusion. “Why?”

“You seem so sad. I wanted to stop that, if I could.”

“It’s no use, Enj.”

That nickname again. Enjolras’ skin shivers.

“Only because I haven’t found anything yet,” he protests, “If I find out, if I – if I bring them to justice—”

Grantaire releases his wrist and says quietly, “You care a lot about that, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Justice.” He sighs, brushing his tangled brown hair from his face. Like hawthorn, Enjolras thinks absently. He bites down on his lip and watches as Grantaire does the same. “It won’t help, you know. It doesn’t make sense.”

Enjolras glares at him. His heart is soft in his chest. “You’re a ghost,” he says pointedly, “and you’re dead. None of this makes sense to begin with. There isn’t a rulebook, Grantaire.”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “If you say so,” he mutters, half-turning from the scope of Enjolras’ eyes. If he didn’t know better, Enjolras would swear he was blushing. Enjolras pushes the thought away.

“I do,” Enjolras says, earnest now, sitting up in the wicker chair and staring down at him. Grantaire looks back, wary. Enjolras is better with friends. He is better with Grantaire. “You have to help me look.”

“What?”

“It’s your life. If anyone can figure it out—” he cuts himself off suddenly, looking down at his hands. The thought that’s occurred to him isn’t pleasant, but then, neither is seeking out a killer. It’s this or nothing, he realises. This or nothing at all.

He levels his gaze at Grantaire and asks a question he is somehow still afraid of, even after all these years.

“Grantaire,” he says, and then changes his mind, tongue settling on the only thing that sounds right, “R. Did you – did you drink?”

He remembers Grantaire saying it. Remembers him admitting it, all those weeks ago, but he doesn’t want to think about it. Drunk people have always made Enjolras nervous, for personal and impersonal reasons. He doesn’t touch it for a reason. Hasn’t ever touched it, in fact. But the rift remains.

Grantaire’s expression grows heavy; there’s a pause before he answers. “I guess you could say I was dealing with some alcoholism,” he says, not looking at Enjolras, not trying to touch him, for fear of remark or rebuke. Enjolras says nothing, so he adds, “And a few other things.”

“You mentioned you were drunk, when the car crashed into you.”

Grantaire sucks in a breath. “Yeah,” he exhales, “You could – you could say that.”

“And you went,” Enjolras manages, his heart thudding against his ribcage, alive with the memory of it, broken glass on the kitchen floor, stark crimson flowering on his face, his father’s dress shirt – “you went to these kinds of parties. The kind of parties Mavot wants me to go to.”

“Enjolras—”

“Come on, R.”

Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut, as closed as Enjolras’ just a few moments before. “Most of the time,” he replies, his voice a whisper, “They have – it’s every Friday. Same place for as long as I remember. Long before I started going.”

Enjolras nods. It was the answer he was expecting, after all, but that doesn’t make the whir in his head any quieter, doesn’t make what he has to do next any easier to bear. He reaches out to Grantaire and holds his hand close to Grantaire’s own – they pass through one another like smoke, that’s true, but it feels important now to make sure Grantaire knows he’s not ashamed of him – make sure Grantaire knows Enjolras will love him no matter what. He doesn’t say it, but the gesture is there. He leaves it up to Grantaire to decide just kind of love he means.

Then, he makes a decision.

“I’m going to go,” he says, both to Grantaire and to the empty air around him, “next week.”

“Enj—”

His chest constricts. “You were drunk,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, “so was the driver. They weren’t arrested, so they’re still on campus. I doubt they’ve changed their habits.”

Grantaire looks at him, beseeching. “Someone made you afraid,” he says. He says it like he wants to hurt them, and it makes Enjolras feel weirdly proud. Grantaire and Bahorel would be good friends, he thinks.

He swallows. “Once,” he allows, pushing away the fear. “I’ll be fine.”

“What will you do?”

Enjolras looks down at Grantaire, at his sad face and tired hands, and wants desperately to kiss him. It’s the wrong reaction for the wrong time. Enjolras wonders if they’ll ever be a right one.

“I’ll talk to Mavot,” he says, mouth moving before he can stop himself, because he’s never been one to avoid a plan, to avoid moving forwards. “Keep an eye on everyone there.” Check their cars. Watch who watches back, he adds silently to himself. Grantaire doesn’t have to know everything, all the risks he might take. Nobody ever has to have the full story. He swallows the bloom of guilt that forms as a result. No matter, he thinks. What Grantaire doesn’t know won’t harm him. When this is over, you’ll be able to tell him everything.

Grantaire is looking at him again, his nose scrunched up and a frown between his eyebrows. Enjolras resists reaching out to push those frown lines aside. He wouldn’t be able to anyway, even if Grantaire were corporeal. Even then, he thinks, his dream is only fantasy. Only wishful thinking.

“I can’t stop you,” Grantaire says. The _can I?_ is only implied, lost in translation, but Enjolras understands it nonetheless. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “Not whilst I have this chance.” _Not when I might be able to save you. Not then. You deserve to be saved._

Grantaire looks at him like he disagrees, but Enjolras isn’t liable to correct him. He doesn’t want to talk about the sweet feeling buried in his bones. Not yet. Not if Grantaire doesn’t feel the same way.

Not if he’s wrong, and there’s no way to save the ghost slowing fading into wind.

Unrequited love, Enjolras thinks, is wasted on the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time I say, “I will update much faster now,” please assume that I am lying and that I am actually a terrible, ignoble person not deserving of your lovely praise. Like, for real, honestly.
> 
> Apologies for any continuity errors that have escaped my attention - it’s been a while since I’ve looked at this fic, and I am full of appropriate regret. But, on the plus side: I passed my mock exams! And then I had to work with four-year-olds for a while, so uh, that was fun.
> 
> Again, my apologies for making y’all wait for so long again. I’m not promising anything this time in terms of time constraints, but know that this fic WILL be finished eventually, at some time, at some point, probably within the next few months. Probably.


	6. Taffy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras goes where he would rather not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for panic attacks, dissociation (not mentioned directly, just implied) and generalised anxiety on Enjolras’ part. Also, alcohol.

Not everything can be done in a day.

Enjolras tells himself this, standing in the entrance to the venue that Grantaire has assured him is always the same, Friday after Friday, no matter the weather or the number of drunken accidents that have occurred down by the docks. He tells himself that everything is fine, too, and tries to believe it. He has a hard time convincing himself.

This part of town isn’t the safest, but Enjolras knew that going in. He’s found out quite a lot about the venue, really, over the last week or so; it doesn’t seem like the sort of place anyone would _willingly_ want to go to – which is probably why everybody goes there. Enjolras glances from building to building, gazing up at the high-rise flats that seem to surround him on every side. He can’t see the docks, not in this light, but he knows they are there; he can _hear_ the churning waters, hear his heart thumping against his ribs, every atom of him desperate to get away from the danger that crawls not two feet from him. Anything could happen tonight. He might drown; he might say the wrong thing to the wrong person and get punched in the goddam mouth. His crazy-ass plan might even work. There’s no way of knowing.

There’s no way of knowing, but that doesn’t ease the anxiety in his chest – doesn’t absolve him of a nervousness that is entirely justified. Enjolras thought he was good at keeping his feelings under control. Apparently not. Not with his heart burning the way it is now.

Enjolras loves Grantaire. He’s tired to deny it, tried to tell himself otherwise over the past few weeks, but it’s true. He can’t prevent himself from feeling this, can’t stop himself from trying to do what he must for the sake of Grantaire’s happiness. Even if it means putting himself in danger. Even if it means oblivion. Enjolras will do anything for Grantaire.

He doesn’t realise it, not yet, but tonight he is as reckless as he has ever been.

“Hey! Enjolras!”

He turns towards Mavot’s voice, limbs held stiff, head needlessly high. He doesn’t want Mavot to see how afraid he is. Not tonight. Tonight, everything must go absolutely perfect. It has to.

“Hey,” he says, swallowing the bile that has risen to the roof of his mouth. He’s going to be sick. He can’t be sick. He has to keep calm. “This the place?”

Mavot gives him a friendly elbow – Enjolras trains himself not to flinch. He’s done it before. “Yeah,” Mavot says, staring into the dark awning of an even darker place. “This is the place.” Two stories up, all of the windows have been blocked off by thick, reinforced cardboard. The venue – a block of flats, converted into a bar – looks like a monster without any eyes. Enjolras represses another shudder. Mavot hands him a friendly grin.

“You wanna go in, or are you gonna stand there all night?”

He would prefer to, Enjolras thinks. In all honesty, he would prefer to do nothing at all. But something has to be done.

It has to be now.

It has to be done before it’s too late. Before there isn’t anything of Grantaire left to save. Before the inevitable happens. Before Enjolras can fail.

It has to be now.

Enjolras glances sideways at the next building over, and finds his reflection looking back at him – pale-faced, awkward, suddenly, in the midst of all this chaos. He isn’t built for places such as this. He wasn’t designed to be able to face the unexpected – and not even the clothes he’s wearing can hide it. Enjolras pulls his jacket a little closer and nods at Mavot. There’s plenty of time to be scared. He can do it later, when he’s safe. When Grantaire is safe.

“Let’s go,” he says. Mavot smiles even wider.

They step into the carnivorous mouth of the door, and Enjolras watches as the outside world disappears completely into the night.

*

He isn’t aware of it, but someone watches as he enters the bar. For now, the feeling is just a prickle. Just a pinprick.

It’s worse than he even could have anticipated.

The first thing he thinks is that this is what it must be like to be Marius when he’s having a meltdown. The noise is deafening. From the moment he steps in, Enjolras can feel the stereo beneath his feet – it’s a wonder anyone has stuck around to hear it. There are enough people here to form an army – and most of them, given the chance, probably would. The floor in front of him is a mass of dress shoes and short skirts and heels that seem just about ready to trample him.

And, inevitably of course, most of them are already way past what Enjolras might think of as companionably drunk.

He’s shoved by about a dozen elbows as he forces his way through after Mavot, making his way forward to a circular table that’s already crowded with people. Enjolras doesn’t know any of them, but that’s all right – it means none of them know him, either. There’s a blonde girl not far from where they are – Mavot nods at her as they pass her by – and Enjolras notices her nails are painted a bright talon-red. He doesn’t care for the expression on her face. Enjolrastries to steer well clear of her, moving over to Mavot’s right side, but it’s clear Mavot intends to stay for as long as this party’s going on for. Enjolras could kill him.

Given how this party’s set to turn out, that’s probably a highly likely possibility.

“Hey, Enjolras, come here,” Mavot says, linking an arm around him and pulling him forwards. Already, he seems to reek of beer. Enjolras doesn’t want to think about it. He looks up as Mavot gestures to the person in front of him – he isn’t someone he recognises, but then Enjolras supposes he’s not supposed to. Everyone is new here. It’s only one more indicator of how lonely he is in this place, bar the companionable, trusting warmth of Grantaire. But Grantaire isn’t here.

“This is Pretot,” Mavot says, looking at Enjolras with the exact kind of wry smile Enjolras is afraid of on nights like this. He tries to ignore it. “You know, the art major? He knew that guy who died. I mentioned him to you in the café.”

“Nice to meet you,” Pretot says, rising out of his chair and holding his hand out to Enjolras. He has to shout to be heard above the noise of the bar, but at least he has the decency to look apologetic about it. The lenses of his glasses glint in the dull overhead light. “Mavot says you’re living in Grantaire’s old flat.”

 _Yes, but Grantaire’s living with me too_ , Enjolras thinks, nonsensically. Out loud, he says lamely, “Yeah, I am.”

“He was a nice guy,” Pretot says. “Real nice. Of course, he had his moods, but we all have those from time to time I guess.”

Mavot lets out a snort. “That’s not what you told me,” he says, “You told me he was impossible to work with.”

Pretot sniffs. “Maybe so, but he was still a nice guy. Just liked his space, that’s all.” He turns to look at Enjolras, his face surprisingly resigned. Perhaps, Enjolras thinks, just perhaps, these two aren’t as close as Mavot seemed to suggest. Pretot clears his throat.

“You don’t, uh, believe in any of that bullshit they made up about his ghost, right?”

Enjolras stutters. “What? I—”

“Mavot here believes every word,” Pretot continues, giving Mavot a significant look. “Don’t you? You think he’s – well, Jesus, I don’t know what you think. Something awful, probably.”

Mavot frowns at him. “I mean, it’s perfectly possible—”

“Bullshit,” Pretot interrupts. He isn’t one for places like this; Enjolras can tell. He only goes because he’s told, and even then he doesn’t seem entirely enthused about the idea. “People just made it up, didn’t they? Made it up so they’d have something to talk about. It makes me sick.” He looks steadily at Enjolras. “You don’t, do you? You seem like a sensible person. I can’t believe you’d go in for all that stuff.”

Enjolras hesitates before answering. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to lie about Grantaire – doesn’t want to ruin the existing memory of him with some kind of fabrication, some kind of deceit. On the other hand…

Tonight, Enjolras has to pretend he doesn’t know Grantaire at all. Perhaps he doesn’t – the real Grantaire, that is, the one that existed before death came to claim his bones. But what he does know of Grantaire – smart, kind, funny Grantaire – he now has to temporarily forget. Pretot can’t know anything of what Enjolras plans to do – it would sound crazy to him, wouldn’t make any kind of sense. Enjolras, without such a haunting, has no reason to look for Grantaire’s killer. No reason to care as much as he does now.

So he lies. There’s nothing else he can do.

“No, I don’t,” he says, hating how the words grate against his teeth. “I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

Beside him, Mavot frowns. He might be drunk, but he definitely isn’t an idiot. Beer lurches from his breath. “That’s not what you said before, man.”

“I said I feel sorry for the guy, Mavot,” Enjolras says, trying to remember the exact words he’d used the last time he and Mavot had talked about this. Something about a lack of malignancy, he thinks. It’s not a lie. “That’s all I meant. Pretot’s right; it’s cruel for people to make up rumours about something they don’t know anything about. I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary since the last time we talked.”

Pretot, luckily enough, seems satisfied by this. He turns to Mavot with a triumphant expression. “See?” he says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the surge of the music, “Kid’s got more brains than you about this kind of stuff. If he says he’s fine, he’s fine.”

Mavot’s mouth seems too take a tilt towards mulish. He gives Enjolras a reproachful look. “As long as you’re OK,” he says, looking remarkably sober for a man who apparently started drinking long before the party began. Enjolras feel a little shiver of guilt for deceiving him like this. He nods at Mavot.

“Sure I’m sure,” he replies. “You’re just looking out for me. I appreciate it.”

That part at least is true enough; Enjolras hopes Mavot can see the sincerity in his eyes. He watches as the older man pushes himself back from the table he was leaning against, eyes glancing in the direction of the brightly-lit neon bar. A second glance; when Enjolras turns his head, he can see the blonde girl from earlier looking in their direction, talons folded over one another in her lap like some kind of predator. Mavot smiles at her; the girl smiles back.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he says, a little absently, as the girl stands up and drifts towards the bar. The look Mavot gives to Enjolras is fractured, inconsistent. “Stick around, yeah? I just know you’ll like this place.”

He’s gone as quickly as he’d arrived. Behind Enjolras, Pretot lets out an impatient huff of air.

“Jesus. Who invites someone to a party and then leaves them to it?” He gives Enjolras a knowing look, patting at one of the heavy-looking chairs beside him. “Come on. I can tell you’re not a party person. Not a fan of drinking either, right?”

Enjolras starts – then sits down in the chair. He has nothing to lose.

“How’d you guess?” he asks, attempting to keep his voice light. Judging by the slant of Pretot’s eyebrows it’s obvious that the other man isn’t convinced.

“Most first-years are falling over themselves to get into this place – the night-life is the only reason half of them come here. They’re not interested in getting a degree. This is the first time you’ve turned up here and we’re already halfway through the first semester.” He reaches absently for his drink – a half-drunk lemonade, the ice clinking against the edge of the glass. He looks at Enjolras meaningfully over the rims of his glasses. “Now, forgive me for saying this, but you don’t exactly blend into the crowd. I think I’d remember someone like you in a place like this.”

So that’s where Pretot’s ample certainty comes from. It makes sense.

“Seems to be a common complaint,” he mutters. Pretot barks out a laugh.

“No, no. It’s not a bad thing. But you’re not one for music and parties, yeah? That’s fine. Me neither, to be honest.”

“So why are you here?” Enjolras asks. The question is out of his mouth before he realises just how rude it sounds. Oh well.

Pretot, however, seems amused rather than affronted. “Hell, I don’t know,” he says, “Because I’ve got nothing better to do, probably. You want me to show you the sights? There’s a pretty good view of the dock lights from round the back, and it’s a damn sight quieter too. I need a goddam aspirin.”

Enjolras nods without really thinking about it. He needs to get out of this place, even if it’s just for a few moments. He’ll continue his search when he’s ready, but he’s sure as hell not doing it without a break. Maybe Pretot has a spare aspirin of his own to share.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Getting out of the club proves far more difficult than getting into it. Belatedly, Enjolras wonders where the doorman was on their way in – then realises this probably isn’t the kind of place that checks for ID in the first place. It’s a student hangout and, once more, it’s in the wrong part of town for anything close to safety or surety to even apply to it. Words like that don’t matter here. He’s in a lawless, luckless place, and he’s completely on his own.

Pretot walks ahead of him through the crowd, his pale hand wrapped tightly around Enjolras’ dark wrist. He’s grateful for it, really – the deep anxiety within him seems to make the world shine in completely different colours; his vision is fractured, tormented, fearful eyes darting every which way. He doesn’t know where to look. He doesn’t know where not to look. If Pretot wasn’t holding onto him so tightly, Enjolras would be sitting on the floor, legs tucked up underneath his chin, arms wrapped around his body. More than ever now, he feels an urge to block out every possible danger. It’s not possible, but in this moment he’s filled with a fatalistic urge to try. Sit down. Close your eyes. Just keep breathing. Just keep breathing—

He looks up, jerking sideways as a woman with large hooped earrings and too much make-up practically tries to walk into him, and his eyes catch on a well-dressed figure at the end of the room. The figure is half-obscured by shadow and darkness, but what little Enjolras can see of his features appears chiselled and disturbingly concrete – like a man carved from marble. In one hand, he carries a glass of elegant red wine, in the other, a broad-rimmed black felt hat. Enjolras flinches as the figure lifts his head and their eyes meet. Suddenly, he’s cold – colder than cold, a prickle of disquiet raising the hairs on his neck. He tugs abruptly on Pretot’s arm; Pretot stops and turns to him with a questioning expression.

“Who’s that?” Enjolras asks, pointing to the figure, already slinking away back into the dark. Pretot lets out a knowing grunt.

“That’s Montparnasse,” he says, face decidedly guarded. “You don’t want to mess with him.”

Despite his anxiety, Enjolras can help but feel a flicker of interest. “Why?” he asks, heart hammering beneath his ribs. “Is he dangerous?” All around him, colours are sliding from their frames, dripping down silently onto the floor. He’s about to have another anxiety attack and he knows it, but for now he pushes it deep down inside of him and hopes it won’t bubble up again in the middle of the club – or worse, when he’s alone with Pretot himself.

Pretot’s expression does not change. “He’s got a gang,” he replied, “Patron-Minette. Nasty piece of work – and I say that from experience. Don’t get involved with him, Enjolras.”

Enjolras, breathing deeply now, allows Pretot to take his arm and drag him out, finally, into the cool, fetid darkness of the night, the air around them steeped in petrol fumes and other smells Enjolras can’t quite identify right now. Cursing himself only slightly, he slides down against the outer wall of the club and closes his eyes, one hand perched on his chest, measuring his breathing. Pretot stands over him with a slight frown on his face.

“You hate parties that much?” he asks. Enjolras gazes at the blackness behind his eyelids, trying to imagine his expression, but all he can see is the after-image of neon light – that, and the stark outline of Montparnasse’s face.

“It’s nothing,” he says, “Just a feeling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the setting of the fic from Cambridge to Manchester, because I have since realised I know nothing about Cambridge and I don’t care to. Apologies to any Americans of which this confuses.
> 
> Additionally: You can pry autistic Marius from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> Sorry about the delay in updates, as per usual. Life has been pretty hectic.


	7. Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation continues.

Enjolras doesn’t know what to expect of Pretot, but finds himself surprised as the older man slides down next to him, long legs splayed out on the concrete pavement like a friendly spider. A spider Enjolras should almost certainly be careful of, he thinks, but the thought is eclipsed by the loudness of his breathing and the heavy, staccato drumbeat of his heart. He stares unblinkingly at Pretot’s shoes instead, trying to remember just one reason for why he thought this was a good idea. Nothing is coming to mind.

He’s still staring at Pretot’s battered green hightops when the man speaks. “Breath, Enjolras.”

“I _know_.”

“It does help to be reminded.”

Enjolras sucks in a breath, holding it for a moment before releasing it back into the grey light that seems to float all around them. He wants Grantaire. He doesn’t know why. It just seems logical.

“You’re right. I don’t like parties.”

Pretot raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t need to tell me. People are loud. People are assholes. But you knew that already,” he adds, “so why come here? It doesn’t get any better with time, trust me.”

Enjolras glances at the face of his watch – luminous green in the darkness, forever unfailing, a gift from Combeferre for his seventeenth birthday. It’s almost two in the morning. He wonders if either Grantaire or Combeferre are missing him at all right now. He wonders if Grantaire is worried.

He doesn’t know what it means, that he kind of wishes he is. He’s too tired to cope with Mavot’s drunken, superficial worry, or Pretot’s keen observations. He wants to go home. He _needs_ it.

He can’t, though, because he has a job to do. So he reigns in his breathing and broken heartbeat and says:

“I wanted to – to see what it was like,” he answers Pretot, which is – well, it’s a half-lie, and a half-lie is better than a complete fabrication. He tries to look Pretot in the eye, and for the first time kind of wishes that the guy wasn’t a total teetotaler. It’s easier to lie to drunk people – in most respects, at least.

Images flash through his mind. A whisky bottle, falling to the floor. His mother, shouting. Himself, reaching up to touch the spots of blood on his forehead, red smears gathered in the creases of his hands. He thumbs those same crevices now, thinks of Grantaire, stumbling back to the flat all those months ago, drunk and alone, and shudders in his jacket. Tries to tell himself that it’s sympathy he’s feeling. Ignores the idea that fear could ever filter through back into his life. Ignores the fact that he’s afraid of _Grantaire_ – or ever could be.

It’s not good for him. He can’t think of it.

“And do you like what you see?”

“I think I’m probably better off staying at home with an essay and a book or two.”

Pretot barks out a laugh, stands up and holds out a hand to Enjolras. He’s calmer now, though he shouldn’t be—he takes Pretot’s hand and levers himself to his feet. In the darkness, all Enjolras can see of him is his glasses, glinting in the murky half-dark. He knows he should not try to lie to Pretot, but he’s going to do it anyway regardless.

They begin walking in the direction of the dock – Pretot is taller than him, although that’s not saying much, and he walks at a dangerously fast pace along the dockside, his face lit up periodically by rows upon rows of gaseous-yellow streetlamps, poised by the water’s edge as if they’re about to jump in and take a swim. Orange light glints and bobs on the surface of the water. There aren’t any handrails.

Enjolras sticks tight to Pretot, unsure if he trusts him, even less sure of whether or not he’s _meant_ to. He has countless questions he’d like to ask him and he’s uncertain of how to ask any of them. Either way, they don’t talk much; Pretot seems to understand Enjolras’ need for silence without the words. They keep walking like this until they reach a bridge; a huge, solid mass in the darkness, rising up over the waterway, some guardian of the subterranean levels below. Enjolras shivers at the sight of it.

They aren’t far from the club – he can see bright lights and flashing bulbs in the distance, with the tall building itself rising up into the blackness, staring blank windows as eerily mesmerising as the ringed eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleberg. He wonders if this place is equally reminiscent of death and decay, decadence and consumerism – and then abruptly tells himself off for being morbid, because dammit, he’s an adult now, he doesn’t have the energy spare to be spooking himself out like this. It’s just a building, just a place—

It’s just a building, but he doesn’t believe it.

Pretot sits down on the third step of the bridge, his glasses shining in the glow of the streetlamp. Enjolras waits a moment before sitting down next to him, eyes flitting around the scene. It’s like a watercolour. A dream from a long time ago. He sinks down onto the stone and tries to ignore the way his lungs get caught up in the rhythm of his thumping heart.

“How close were you to Grantaire?” he asks. Not subtle, but then, he can’t be subtle _per se_ with Pretot. He just has to let the other man connect the dots for himself. Let him think Enjolras curious. So long as he doesn’t think him _mad_ , he’s fine. He’s totally fine.

Pretot blinks at him – then lowers his glasses. His eyes look weak without them, small and blind like a mole’s. It doesn’t fool Enjolras. He knows he’s wondering what to say – and what not to say. Neither one of them seems prepared to be completely honest with the other.

“Pretot?”

“Not that close,” he answers. His tone is inscrutable, as is his face. Enjolras watches him as he shoves his hands into the side pockets of his jeans, leaning back against the cold bricks of the bridge. Enjolras watches his hooded eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me. You’re the one asking the question.”

Cryptic then, OK. He tries another tactic.

“I’m just curious.”

“Exactly. You should be careful.” He sighs suddenly, then says, “Listen, even if – even if you don’t believe in ghosts, hearing about—” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “—hearing about people who do,” he amends, “makes you feel kinda cautious about who you’re talking to. And no offence, Enjolras, but you’re living in his flat.”

“I know. I just don’t want to – to insult his memory, that’s all.”

Pretot looks at him sideways, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment Enjolras thinks that it’s an excuse that isn’t going to fly. Then Pretot says, “You’re not doing this for Mavot, then?”

Enjolras jerks back, surprised. “No?” he says/asks, because he doesn’t quite know what tone he’s supposed to be aiming for. “I – I’m not interested in proving Mavot’s crack theories,” he says, which is true; he isn’t. “I just – it seems a shame. For someone to be elevated purely – purely because they’re dead. I’d rather here about what a person was _like_ then—”

Pretot laughs, noticing that Enjolras has kind of gone off the subject. (That doesn’t mean he’s not trying his best though, Enjolras thinks crossly.) Tapping his foot on the concrete step in front, his says, “R was a pretty gloomy student. He was here” – he sweeps his hand towards the building – “every Friday, sometimes even more regularly than that. But he didn’t talk to people. Bit of a rambler, he was. Once he started talking it was difficult to get him to stop. But he – he meant well.”

“So you didn’t know him too well,” Enjolras says, slowly, afraid to disturb the expression in Pretot’s eyes. “But you wanted to?”

Pretot nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “He was brilliant at what he did. But he wasn’t OK. Not in the least – not that anybody mentioned it. You just sort of knew. Never talked to anyone properly, that was his problem. And then he got drunk, and it all came out the wrong way. People who’d wanted to be his friend once – they backed off once they saw him like that. But he was alright. For a drunk, he was pretty alright.”

“Not violent, then?” Enjolras asks, guilt clawing at him for even asking the question. He already knows the answer – or at least, he thinks he does, until Pretot opens his mouth.

“Not… not exactly,” said Pretot hesitantly. “More – he was passive aggressive, mostly. About – well, Jesus, I don’t know. All sorts of shit. But it wasn’t – he wasn’t always like that. He got on really well with his flatmate – I’ve forgotten her name, I first met her at the funeral – but he had a kind of bone to pick with pretty much everyone else. He’d come talk to me at the parties sometimes, though. Or, more accurately, talk _at_ me, I guess.” He pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful, and his eyes turn to Enjolras. “I didn’t mind. I guess – everyone must have thought we were closer than we actually were. Just before she left, actually, his roommate gave me the key to the studio he was renting out. Still got it, actually. Though I might move my stuff over, seeing as no-one wants to buy it, but…” He settles his glasses back onto his face – Enjolras, for one, feels rather grateful for it – and sighs deeply into the collar of his jacket.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Pretot says again, like it’s important to him, and maybe it is. “But that place… I don’t like going in there by myself. Can’t explain why,” he adds. Enjolras thinks he probably can. He glances at him again. “I can take you down there, if you want. Show you a couple of his paintings. His mum didn’t want any of his stuff, can you believe that? I mean, it was incredible. And some of it was all he’d worked on for months.” A glance at his scuffed green hightops. “I’ve been paying the rent for months now. Fuck knows why. It’s not worth it or anything. But we all end up doing crazy things from time to time. Even you,” he adds, looking up into Enjolras’ eyes. “You shouldn’t care about moving into a dead man’s flat by accident, you know. It’s not your fault. Just a – just a coincidence, I suppose.”

Enjolras feels terrible, though he doesn’t know why. “Yeah,” he says, wishing with every fibre of his being that it wasn’t so. “Just a coincidence.”

“So why are you asking,” says Pretot flatly. Enjolras isn’t entirely sure if it’s a question or not.

“I don’t know. Like I said: I’m curious.”

“Are you? Because I can’t imagine you came here tonight for the hell of it. Not even to see what the night-life is like here. And you’re not a risk-taker, either.”

Enjolras hesitates. He really, truly does. After a moment, he says: “I’d tell you the truth, but you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I haven’t got time to believe in the dead, Enjolras.”

“Nobody really has.” Enjolras replies quietly. Pretot sits back against the bricks, agitated.

“Just what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras replies quickly, alarmed by how easy it is – really, truly easy – to get Pretot wound up about something without meaning to. He has to be careful, he reminds himself. He has to tread carefully. “I just – you know how you said you don’t like going into the studio?”

Pretot shuffles uncomfortably, all trace of his previous demeanour – suave, self-assured – suddenly vanished in an instant. Figures. “Yeah.”

“The flat…” Enjolras begins. “The flat is… like that. It might – it might not _be_ haunted, but it feels like it. It feels lonely. And—” He pauses here, wondering if his next statement says more about him – or Grantaire. “It felt lonely before I even met Mavot, before he me told be about what happened. It’s haunted, alright, but not in the way you think. Not in the… in the cheap kind of way. Not like that. I mean – Grantaire’s death was _serious_ , yeah? And you don’t like people treating it like a joke, because it isn’t.”

Pretot nods, slowly. “Yeah.”

Enjolras knots his hands together. Half-lies. Half-truths. “I don’t – my curiosity isn’t like that. Not in the self-absorbed bullshit way that Mavot – well, you know what I mean.” Enjolras himself, frankly, does not. He’s digging himself a deeper hole with every second that passes, and he can only hope that Pretot is buying it. “I want to help – that. I want to know. So I can honour Grantaire’s memory, in a way. So he’s not – so he’s not just a ghost.”

He doesn’t know if what he’s saying even makes sense, but Pretot – God bless Pretot, honestly – somehow seems to understand. He looks at Enjolras for a moment without speaking, then smiles, turning his head to stare at some unknown point in the dark. There’s water beneath them, Enjolras realises suddenly, thousands of gallons of water, and he can’t hear it. The night is silent but for the nightclubs and the faint buzz of the streetlamps overhead. It’s a death-like night.

He can also hear Pretot breathing quietly beside him, still not quite ready to speak – probably, he thinks, still processing. It’s a long shot. Enjolras _is_ telling him the truth, in a way – he _wants_ to help the memory of Grantaire, of course he does – he just can’t tell _this particular man_ that Grantaire exists as a ghost that paces around Enjolras’ sitting room when he’s asleep. (Enjolras knows he does; he’s seen him – sitting still, sometimes, biting his nails, but always keeping watch.) Enjolras wants to help – just probably not in the way that Pretot is thinking of. Maybe Pretot is assuming he just wants to help _him_. It doesn’t matter. He needs this information somehow, somewhere, and it might as well come from someone who is relatively trustworthy. Someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts, but who is sensible enough to accept that hey, maybe _something_ exists.

That’s a lot of someone’s and something’s, Enjolras thinks. Pretot heaves another breath.

“You know, you’re a lot smarter than you look.”

“Do I look stupid?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. You think deeper than a lot of people, Enjolras.” He pauses again, tapping his battered shoes against the concrete. He probably comes here often, Enjolras thinks. Bridges are a good place to think.

“What’s your first name?”

“Julian.”

“OK. I’m gonna stick to calling you Enjolras.” He smiles slightly at his confused expression. “It suits you better.”

“And there’s another thing I’m often told.”

“Do you want to head down to Grantaire’s studio tomorrow? I can show you a couple of his paintings, some sketchbooks he left.” Another, minute pause. “You’re not – you’re not chasing a story here, right?”

Had it occurred to him, to write all this bullshit down? Probably. But it won’t be a public story, Enjolras thinks. If he ever does – which, already, seems unlikely – it will be a private one. But he could share it with Pretot, perhaps. One day.

“No. Not a story. I just want to understand.”

“And you want—” Pretot says this very carefully. “You want to catch Grantaire’s killer?”

That hadn’t been in the subtext of what he was saying. Enjolras jumps backwards.

“Not necessarily.”

“But you think it will help.”

“Are you sure Mavot is the journalism student? Not you?”

“Don’t push it; I’m still the one with the studio keys.”

Enjolras looks at him, suddenly tired. Pretot is an honest man – but he also thorough. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to,” he replies, and swears at himself internally like sounding like some kind of dumb cop in a murder mystery. But Pretot just smiles.

“Fine. Your secret is safe with me.”

“But you’ll take me to see the studio?”

“Sure. Meet me in the square tomorrow. The one with the big war memorial.” A quick glance up and down the street. “We can take the metro.”

Enjolras shakes his head; he can’t help it. “Don’t call it the fucking metro. It’s not the metro.”

Pretot says something sharp and rude in French, then grins at him. “Anglophobe.”

“That is so blatantly not true—”

He stills suddenly, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. The cold night air blows against his cheeks, and Enjolras’ back and shoulders prickle with disquiet. They’re being watched. He’s sure of it. His eyes scan the dockside.

“Pretot.”

“Yes?”

“I need to go.”

If Pretot is disappointed, he does well to hide it. “As you wish.”

“Meet you tomorrow at one?”

Pretot nods. “Tomorrow at one,” he says, at Enjolras stands up, still cold, pulling his jacket tight around him. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and then heads off back towards the club, purposefully staying well-away from the water. He has his suspicions – and he hopes dearly that whoever was standing there watching ( _You know who it was_ , says the voice in his head) didn’t manage to hear the entirety of the conversation. It’s a slim hope. A very slim hope. But it’s all he’s got.

He rounds a corner, jogging across the bare stretch of road that leads up to the back of the venue. There’s a car park just a few feet away – a monstrous thing, surrounded on three sides by a chain-link fence and stacks upon stacks of trash cans. Except they’re not called that here, are they? He swears at himself for getting distracted and advances towards the car park. There’s not a lot of cars – and it’s not hard to guess which one of them is the one he’s looking for.

Black. Sleek. Unremarkable, with an unremarkable license plate. The windows are tinted and – he thinks – probably bulletproof. The caps are way too flashy, but that’s it. He doesn’t know what kind of car it is, hasn’t ever been good with that sort of thing really, but—

That feeling again. He turns around, slowly, expecting to see the eavesdropper directly behind him – but there’s nothing. His hands tremble – his shoves them into his pockets. He can’t show weakness now. Not now. He’s got a plan, or the start of one.

And possibly, quite possibly, he’s got a lead. But he won’t know for sure until he heads over to the car for a closer look. And so he does. Slowly, he walks over towards the car and crouches down beside the bumper. Is that what it’s called? He’s isn’t sure. But he knows one thing.

It’s dented.

It could be a coincidence. It could be nothing more than that. But somehow Enjolras knows it isn’t. There is a time for being paranoid and this isn’t it. He knows, now. He just has to check.

Checking proves easy, actually, because as he turns his head to look back the way he came he sees a tall, stiff figure walking slowly on up the road, with a face like marble and clothes to match. He can see the black, broad-rimmed hat from here, actually, and it seems to be teasing him as the figure walks away, slowly, slowly…

Montparnasse turns back just once to look at him, right at the end of the street. His expression is cool and collected, not a hair on his closely-shaven head out of place. Just out of reach of one of those great fuzzy streetlamps, his coat blends easily with the rest of him. But Enjolras knows he’s looking, even if the eyes don’t quite reach his.

He knows he’s looking, because right now every last hair on the back of his neck is standing on end. It’s not a game anymore, he thinks.

In some ways, he’s doubtful that it ever was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Thank you to everybody who has left kudos and comments so far; it totally makes my day. :)


	8. Melichrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MELICHROUS –
> 
> adj.
> 
> of the colour honey yellow

Grantaire is waiting for him when he gets back. Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He really could do with a familiar presence right now. A familiar face, someone he knows is at least mostly honest, most of the time. Mostly.

His life is so full of ifs and buts that it almost doesn’t seem real. This evening is made of glass.

Taking the bus home had been a mistake, Enjolras thinks, as he turns the key in the door of 4A. It had given him far too much time to think about things – the dented bumper, Pretot’s cautious words, the dark shadow of Montparnasse skulking just around the corner, like a spider slowly closing in around its prey. Walking home would have been truly stupid, he thinks – leaving him with only one option. The late bus. A moving vehicle clouded by sweat and human heat and the intense, migraine-like buzz of Enjolras’ thoughts, so tightly packed that he’s surprised none of them ever escaped past his lips. Montparnasse saw him, by the dockside, and by the car. It won’t be long before he makes another appearance, of that Enjolras is certain. But he sure as hell doesn’t want that to mean tonight. It’s absurdly late – or absurdly early. All Enjolras wants is to lie down and close his eyes and _rest_. Impossible, but it would be nice. Wouldn’t it?

He wants to be wrong. He isn’t sure why. But he knows he isn’t.

He opens the door, checks furtively over his shoulder, and slips into the flat – just as the lights above him flicker eerily into life. A few months ago, this would’ve frightened him. It doesn’t now.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, because damn him if he ever greets Enjolras any other way. He’s looking at him now with a startled, frightened expression, like an injured rabbit caught in the headlights. “Are you OK?”

Close the door. Lock the door. Carry your keys with you, always, just in case a murderer decides he’d rather take the shortcut and take you out whilst he can. Enjolras performs all the tasks required of him mechanically, one by one, his brain so very tired of itself that he almost forgets to answer Grantaire’s question. Turning back around to him, he says quietly, “I’m fine.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I’m not too bad.”

They’re having a stand-off in the hallway. Enjolras won’t stand for that. He moves wearily into the front room, thinks briefly about making himself something to eat, then dismisses it, falling down onto the sofa like it’s the world’s most comfortable bed. Bed. He should really get to bed. If he can sleep after everything this evening has put him through. Mostly, he just wants to stare at the ceiling and allow time to pass him by. It’ll be morning soon, and he has a lecture at ten. He can justify cereal at four.

The sliver of spirit that is Grantaire sits down gently beside him, but of course Enjolras can’t feel the depression in the sofa, because Grantaire doesn’t weigh anything. He doesn’t flinch, either, as Grantaire leans over to briefly grab hold of his watch, still glowing faintly in the half-dark (he’s forgotten to turn on the front room lights, _dammit_ ), trying to reassure himself that Enjolras is, in fact, home in one piece. Enjolras can’t quite believe it either. It’s been one hell of a night.

“You look awful,” Grantaire says, and when Enjolras opens his eyes again (only briefly closed; Montparnasse’s face is imprinted on the backs of his eyelids) he can see Grantaire staring up at him, pale eyes filled with concern. His mouth is tugged down in a resolute line that is doing strange things to Enjolras’ stomach. It’s no good. No matter how tired he gets, he can’t turn those feelings off. At this point in time it seems like nothing more than an additional layer of purgatory – though a pretty sad one, all things considered.

“I talked to a friend of yours,” he says with his eyes closed, because he can’t bear to have Grantaire looking at him like that, even if it’s only out of friendly concern. He rolls over onto his side, props himself up, pretends the air around Grantaire’s spirit is warmer than it actually is as he picks up a stray blanket and wraps it around his shoulders. Grantaire’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion.

“A friend?”

“His name is Pretot. An art student, like you.”

A shadow passes across Grantaire’s face. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t aware he considered me a friend.”

“Well, he would’ve liked to be,” Enjolras says, his eyes still avoiding Grantaire’s, so he doesn’t see the pained expression that quicksilvers across the other man’s face. “He – he doesn’t believe in ghosts, but—” He cuts himself off, wondering what on earth he can say. Grantaire’s face is so carefully arranged – like he’s steeling himself against hurt. It breaks Enjolras’ heart all over again. “I think he misses you.”

Grantaire looks away from him, staring at a bald spot on the rug. Enjolras looks at it, too. He isn’t entirely sure how it got there. Courfeyrac, probably. He allows Grantaire another moment of silence, then adds, “He’s taking me to look at your studio, tomorrow.”

Now Grantaire _does_ look at him. He looks… surprised, which is interesting. “It was sold,” he says, apparently more out of disbelief than anything else, “wasn’t it?”

“Pretot bought it,” Enjolras answers. He doesn’t know why Grantaire is so surprised – so he asks. “Didn’t you know?”

A downward glance. “I knew _someone_ had bought it,” he mumbles, and Enjolras doesn’t press. Then he adds, “Why are you going there?”

“He kept your paintings.”

“Which ones?”

Enjolras hesitates. “Uh, all of them,” he says. “I think.”

Grantaire’s tone borders on the incredulous. “Why the hell would he do that?”

Enjolras shrugs. “He seemed to have a lot of respect for your art. He didn’t want it ruined, so he kept it. And it’s all – it’s still there.”

Grantaire sighs and leans back against the sofa cushion, being careful not to phase right through it. “That’s absurd.” he says finally. Enjolras gives him a sideways glance.

“Is it? Is it really so unbelievable that someone might like your art?” _And you_ , he adds, but doesn’t think it, because Grantaire seems to be having a hard enough time processing this by itself. He watches as the other man folds his arms.

“My art isn’t worth keeping,” he mumbles, “It was just… just taking up space. That’s all.”

“Grantaire, I’m sure that’s not true.”

The man looks at him like he wants to believe him, but of course he doesn’t. “If you say so,” he mumbles, and Enjolras, in his fatigue, finds he doesn’t have enough energy left to argue with him and instead drops back onto the sofa to look up at the white-washed ceiling. He aches, all of him, as if he’s run a mile, and in the darkness that swims all around them it feels so unfair, all of a sudden, that he has to deal with this. He wishes he could shake off his problems onto someone else – just for once. Or even just let them share the burden. That would make everything so much easier. But he can’t share his burden with Grantaire, he thinks. Grantaire’s burden is already far too heavy.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say, again, but he doesn’t, because unrequited love has never helped anyone, and it certainly won’t help Grantaire. It can’t help Grantaire – only make him feel worse.

The thought is repetitive, Enjolras thinks – both within and removed from Grantaire’s proximity, those sad pale eyes are all he can think about. He wanted a distraction from his only loneliness, and now he has one; unsurprisingly, this distraction doesn’t actually make him feel any better.

He allows his eyes to narrow into slits, watching as the slice of ceiling above grows steadily darker and darker. He’s tired, more tired than he knows, but even with his eyes fully shut he won’t be able to sleep. Not with – not with the knowledge of _that_ crawling around inside of him, not now. So he bites the bullet, opens his mouth, and says to Grantaire:

“I think I might have a lead.”

Grantaire hasn’t moved from where he’s seated on the sofa, but at Enjolras’ words he seems to jerk viciously into life – a poor metaphor, thinks the man watching him sadly, for the aching joints and sinews death has gifted him, for the way Grantaire’s eyes sometimes stare at him without really seeing him, searching like a cat’s, peering at the demon just over Enjolras’ shoulder. Grantaire, in all his many shades, is a poor representation of life.

“A lead?” he asks. Enjolras’ stomach twists, hearing in his voice the thinnest trace of hope – a sliver Grantaire himself can’t possibly be aware of, wrapped as he is in those countless layers of cynicism and grief. He understands. He really does. But he doesn’t want to be the one who gives Grantaire hope.

“Yes,” he says, not wanting to admit he might be wrong, not wanting to be the one who takes _away_ Grantaire’s hope, either. “A car, with a dented bumper. Tinted windows. It belongs to someone – someone Pretot told me to be wary of.” He hesitates, wondering whether or not to reveal Montparnasse’s name. He decides not to – _don’t be wrong, you can’t be wrong_ – and says instead: “I have a feeling I might see him again. But I want to take a look at your studio first.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks again. He doesn’t seem content with the previous answer Enjolras had given him, he thinks, but Enjolras doesn’t know if he’s capable of being completely honest right now, not with Grantaire, not about this. “Why do you want to go there?”

He sucks in a breath. Raises a hand to his pulse, still lying down, and tries to count his frantic heartbeats. “I just – I want to see what your work is like.”

He sees Grantaire frown out of the corner of his eye. In the darkness, he looks almost blurry – as before, Enjolras looks at him indirectly so as to see him better. The expression on Grantaire’s face makes him feel strangely lonely inside.

“I’ve told you, it wasn’t any good.”

Enjolras summons a breath. “I think I’ll decide that for myself, thanks.” he says, perhaps a little more curt than he needs to be, but he can’t say what he really thinks, which of course is _I want to see what you were like in life. I want to know what it was like to know you, before all this, before you were taken from me. I just want to know._

Absurd, he tells himself, because Grantaire was never his, and never will be – would never _want_ to be, let’s be honest, because Grantaire has always had more than his fair share of problems to deal with, and he certainly doesn’t need Enjolras’ problems to deal with as well. He needs to stop thinking like this. He needs to stop _thinking_ it.

“Enj?”

The nickname doesn’t help. It rarely ever does.

“What?” he asks. He tries to be cross. He can’t be cross. Not with Grantaire, not like this.

“Thank you.”

And now he feels doubly absurd. Perfect.

“Do you—” Grantaire’s words are so careful, Enjolras thinks that something of his thoughts must be showing on his face. “Do you need – to sleep now? You look tired. I don’t want you to be tired because of – of all this.”

Grantaire sounds nervous, but he can’t—

His brain is too tired to process. He’ll think about it in the morning.

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly, so quietly that Grantaire could choose not to hear him if he chose. But Enjolras knows he does. He stands up unsteadily from the sofa, vision titling slightly with lack of sleep. He does need rest, that’s true. But he’d rather not be alone, tonight of all nights, so before padding over to the bedroom he turns and says, “You don’t have to stay in here alone, you know. I mean—” He looks at Grantaire looking at him and tries to fathom his expression. Inscrutable. He’s so tired. “I know you don’t sleep, but you can—the wicker chair—”

It would be too much to ask Grantaire to sleep beside him, he thinks. He’s a ghost, and he doesn’t love Enjolras back, and Enjolras isn’t entirely sure if he’s right to love him in the first place—

Grantaire solves the problem by simply nodding at him, standing up and following him into the bedroom. A haze of memories fills the hour or so after that. Disappearing briefly into the bathroom, returning again, pyjama-clad, to find Grantaire sitting quietly in the wicker chair, demure glass-coloured eyes watching his. Climbing into bed, exhausted by the continuous ebb and flow of life that exists in the world all around him. And waking, starting violently from sleep, far too close to what constitutes as almost-waking time, images of his father flashing in his mind like thunderclaps, to find Grantaire watching him from across the room, a gentle sentry forever keeping watch.

He can’t hear Grantaire’s breaths, because of course Grantaire doesn’t have any, but he knows he’s there. His presence is reassuring, a soft lantern light shining through the dark hours of the early morning. Whilst he’s here, Enjolras feels safe. Knowing he’s there, Enjolras is actually able to get some sleep.

He misses the lecture, when it comes, not waking until what seems like mid-afternoon. But he can’t find it in himself to care. When he sits up and looks over at the wicker chair, Grantaire is no longer sat in it – but the lights beyond the bedroom in the hallway are still turned on, and Enjolras, for the first time since he appeared in this blasted place, feels safe. He’s safe.

 _I love you_ , he thinks again, falling back down into the soft warmth of the duvet, wishing sleepily that it wasn’t so empty, just for once. _I love you._

_I love you, and when this is over, I’m going to miss you all the more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to stupid, soft boys who don’t understand the other loves them back. Which, coincidentally, is my favourite kind of boy.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos! They have been immensely helpful in so many ways and I’m always so happy to see them. :)


	9. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light, and then worry.

Grantaire was wrong about his art not being worth keeping.

He thinks about this long before Pretot actually unlocks the door to the studio, of course. He thinks about it whilst waiting at the war memorial for the other man to show up, tries to remember the soft lines of Grantaire’s face as Pretot is unlocking the door to a wide, airy space with plenty of windows that seems so much bigger than it ought to be and yet so much smaller without the artist himself to fill it. He _knows_ why Grantaire thinks the way that he does – it’s not just about the art, and as he reaches forward to pull the first painting out of its many layers of carefully taped newspaper, a small skitter of worry courses through him as he thinks: Grantaire believes the same about _himself_. But he is worth keeping, Enjolras thinks, looking down at the painting in his hands, the stark edges of white canvas cloth bright in comparison to his own dark skin. Grantaire is worth keeping a thousand times over. Regardless of the fact that his art is absolutely beautiful, absolutely _breathtaking_ , because of course it is. Of course it is.

He’s not surprised, not really, but there’s so much _light_ in this room and in its windows and in this painting he holds—

Looking down at the canvas in front of him, Enjolras is suddenly able to envision what Grantaire was before his death, because all of these paintings, all of them are teeming with _life_.

Pretot, standing just behind him, watches Enjolras’ face and smiles sadly at the expression there. His words echo up into the beams of the ceiling, caught in a little loop of infinity. Everything echoes, here.

“Brilliant, aren’t they?” he says, leaning back against the glass panels of the window behind, his arms folded as he looks down at the man in the red sweater beside him. Enjolras traces a finger across the canvas, the rough feel of acrylic sharp beneath his fingers. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He wonders if he should say anything at all.

“It’s lovely,” he says, his voice just a little absent, occupied by the pale, ashen greys that Grantaire has poured across the canvas, carving out a street here, a building there – a glorious tableau of Manchester, with all of its people and flaws intact. Here, in this painting, the people hurrying about the matchstick streets look like ants, the cobblestones and shopfronts mere pinpricks. It’s impossibly detailed. He turns to look at Pretot, trying his best to disguise the wonderment in his eyes, and fails. “Are there more like this?”

Pretot nods, glancing sideways at the mass of rectangular shapes leaning against the wall, backlit by the sunlight pouring through the wide glass windows. Some of them are barely larger than the span of Enjolras’ two hands, and some of them – like the one he holds now – are large enough that they have to be laid almost flat at his feet, angled to one side slightly to keep them out of the sunlight so he can examine the details. But there are too many to see, he thinks. Too many people, too many cobblestones, too much life, to study all at once. It tells him two things, at its core:

One. Grantaire was a perfectionist, by trade and by habit. This canvas alone must have taken him weeks to complete, if not months. Enjolras’ chest stutters at the thought of it.

Two. He was in love with being alive.

It hurts Enjolras’ heart to think that, the thought is so complicated and powerful. It pushes up against his sternum, tight, forcing him to take a deep breath, to concentrate on his current surroundings. It’s no good thinking about what has passed, about what has already been. Grantaire is _dead_. There’s nothing he can do about it. But he wishes he could.

Oh, how he wishes he could.

“Enjolras? You OK?”

He blinks, his vision swimming before him in an arc of light. Pretot is perceptive. He can’t think about this here. Not now.

“I’m fine,” he says – a lie, always. “It’s just – nothing. It’s nothing.”

Pretot’s eyebrows inch up behind his glasses, reminding Enjolras forcefully of Combeferre. This isn’t fair. None of it is fair.

 _The world isn’t fair, Enjolras_. His father’s voice – so conceited, so self-assured – echoes in his head. His grip on the canvas tightens.

 _The world isn’t fair because people like you made it so_ , he thinks fiercely, still staring down at Grantaire’s rendition of Manchester’s matchstick streets. _It isn’t meant to be unfair. People like you just enjoy an uneven playing field_.

People like his father. People like Montparnasse.

The knot in his stomach grows just a little tighter, and then he sighs, lying the painting back down on the warped, tarnished floorboards and standing up to get a better view of the room.

It’s going to take a while, to look through all of Grantaire’s work. There must be fifteen, twenty canvases here at least. Not to mention all those sketchbooks. He wanders over towards the desk wedged in the far corner of the room. It’s littered with all sorts of things: cans of paintbrushes, tubes of acrylic, folded up drop cloths, an empty bottle of turpentine without a lid. The wastepaper basket just beside it is filled with scrunched up pages of sketchbook paper; another set of canvases – blank this time – are propped up listlessly against the nearby wall. All of it gives the impression of a life that’s just – stopped. As if Grantaire isn’t really dead, but absent – gone to buy a packet of cigarettes, perhaps, or to make a phone call to Éponine back at the flat. Except…

Grantaire, in body at least, is never coming back to this place. It makes him feel queasy inside – how everyone else must feel, he realises, knowing that the man who sat here each day – sketching carefully on canvas, wiping paint off his hands with a rag soaked in turps – just doesn’t exist anymore. A man who is just… gone.

He’s going to throw up if he stays in here any longer, he realises. As soon as the thought hits him, he knows it for a certainty.

Pretot’s going to think his very presence is enough to generate panic attacks, after this.

He moves quickly towards the doorway and steps outside, ignoring the brief flickers of sunlight that fall languidly through the thick glass windows, brushing aside the startled noise that Pretot makes as he throws the door open out into the street, slamming himself up against the wall – smooth, cold, all glass and timber, nothing like the rest of this concrete wasteland, somehow – as he closes his eyes and hopes that nobody is watching, that nobody can see the way his breaths hang heavy in his throat—

 _You’re a coward, Enjolras_.

He knows that already, doesn’t he? He knows he’s a coward. So fucking what.

But his father’s voice won’t leave him alone.

_A coward._

But there was so much dust…

 _Everybody dies someday_.

He knows that. He does. But Enjolras is dealing with the aftermath of someone who is already dead. He can’t mourn, because there’s nothing to mourn. But the emptiness that’s left behind—

It’s too much. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his body, ducking his head away from the roar of traffic, the sheer anonymity of this violent city granting him cover in an instant. He’s panicking again. He can’t stop it.

People don’t stop existing, he thinks. They don’t ever stop existing.

If it weren’t for the dust, he thinks, that room would have been simply unoccupied.

If it weren’t for Grantaire’s ghost, Enjolras would be forced to think of him as truly dead. But he isn’t. Not yet.

Not to Enjolras.

“You know,” says a voice from somewhere behind him, “we really ought to stop meeting like this.”

He turns his head to look at Pretot, surveying him with an expression that is both amused and saddened by what it sees. Enjolras doesn’t know if he should agree with what he’s seeing back – again, a coward – so shakes his head instead and stays silent, his voice pushed down into his lungs. Pretot falls into place next to him with a gentle sigh.

“I hadn’t really thought to clean it. It seemed wrong to clear out all his junk, if I wasn’t actually using the studio.”

Enjolras nods. He isn’t sure when he became so ineffective. Probably about the same time he left the countless people who have made him who he is.

“There’s a painting of his flatmate, if you wanna take a look. Though I’m not sure it’s helping you at all – are your hands shaking?”

Enjolras closes his eyes and tries to imagine Pretot as someone else. It helps. “The dust,” he says, instead of answering, because he’s always been good at diversions. “There was too much dust.”

Pretot pauses at that. “He’s been dead for a while, Enjolras.”

“I know.” He does know, doesn’t he, but it isn’t enough. He heaves another breath. “Hadn’t thought about it like that, that’s… that’s all.”

“You can go, if you like.”

Pretot’s voice is kind – much kinder than he deserves, really, for all the lies he’s been told, but Enjolras tells himself that he can’t help that. Tells himself that all of this is inevitable really, and as long as he doesn’t come out of this looking too crazy he supposes he can live with the aftermath. Can live without Grantaire, once Grantaire is truly dead.

_He’s dead already. Accept it._

_I can’t._

And he won’t. Not until the job is done. Only when he cannot deny it any longer, when the entire flat is silent, will he tell himself that Grantaire is dead. For now, he lives in limbo. Alive, but not alive. By Enjolras’ side, but, in many ways, not really by his side at all. It hurts his heart to dwell on it. So the pain is shelved.

Another time, he thinks, and stands up, his body detached as walks back into the studio after Pretot, and when he leaves hours later, that knowledge of _in_ _between_ is still heavy in his mind.

*

He spends most of the day at the studio, to his surprise – Pretot, realising that Enjolras probably needs some time alone, hands him the key and tells him to leave it under the doormat. The door swings shut behind him with a curiously final sound; Enjolras sits in the silence for a full five minutes before moving, so weighted is the atmosphere all around him. He doesn’t want to go home. Not yet.

It’s only when the sun begins to set that he realises just how long it’s been – he stands up from the floor, forcing himself not to look at the canvases scattered all around him, and goes to the window, shivering in those last few dregs of orange sunlight. The colour stretches over everything, intermingling with each mote of dust, each abandoned object, before falling over Enjolras himself. It doesn’t feel warm. Something about the layout of the studio seems to keep it cold no matter the angle of the sun – the old, warped floorboards perhaps, or the thin plasterboards walls and their many windows. Or maybe it’s something more than that.

He shakes the feeling away, refusing to examine it as he picks up the paintings and stands them one by one against the wall. There’s so many of them, all so different and detailed, that it hurts his eyes to look truly at them. That first, matchstick painting is amongst the rest, but he doesn’t stop, piling them up neatly until everything is as it was – just without the newspaper. Sketchbooks are stacked carefully into a pile. He makes sure not to look at too closely at those either. The dust-covered desk is also left untouched.

By the time he’s pulled on his coat and gathered up his things, the sun is almost set. Enjolras lets himself out into the relative quiet of the backstreet, closing the door softly behind him, and locks it without looking up. When it comes to storing the key beneath the welcome mat he hesitates for a moment, a prickle of disquiet creeping up his back – but then does it anyway, figuring that if no-one’s taken it yet, they’re not about to in the next few days until Pretot returns. (Not, of course, that this practice is sensible in the first place.)

He keeps on like this, avoiding the eyes of others as he walks down the street – there aren’t many – but still that anxious feeling remains. It doesn’t truly disappear until he’s back on the metro, and even then…

There’s something lurking in the shadows. He knows it now, though he can’t see it. It’s just a matter of time before he does.

*

“Grantaire?”

The flat is dark when he walks in, something that does nothing for the unease that’s been following him every footstep of the way home. When Grantaire doesn’t answer, that unease tightens back into anxiety. He drops his bag onto the floor of the hallway and makes his way into the living room, flicking on lights as he goes. Grantaire isn’t here – nor is he in the half-kitchen, or the bedroom. Enjolras stops where he is and takes a deep, deep breath.

“Enj?”

Enjolras whips round, falling back against the wall as he sees Grantaire, hands in his pockets, still with that same smudge of cobalt blue just beneath his chin. He’s not sure whether to be angry or relieved, so he decides on both.

“Where the _hell—_ ” he starts, but Grantaire holds up a hand, a gentle, apologetic smile curving at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as Enjolras bites down on his retort. “You were just – you were gone a while. I thought I might go out.”

“Out?”

“Somewhere,” Grantaire replies vaguely, still with that sad look on his face. He looks down at his hands, avoiding Enjolras’ eyes, and says, “Did you – did you go to the studio?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies simply, quashing down the need to ask Grantaire _Where did you go? How did you know I was looking for you?_ It doesn’t matter, and he knows it doesn’t, which only makes him feel worse for wanting to ask. After a pause, he adds, “It’s a nice place.”

Grantaire still won’t look at him. “It is,” he agrees slowly, and all of a sudden Enjolras knows exactly what he’s going to say. “What did you – did Pretot show you—”

Enjolras smiles and steps towards him, ignoring the sudden drop in temperature as he draws within the proximity of Grantaire. The coldness that circulates here is like the cold of the studio – too cold to be natural, really, at this time of year, more a shiver on the spine that real cold, like ice on a lake. But he can’t bring himself to mind it.

“You’re a wonderful artist, R.” he says quietly, as Grantaire raises his eyes to look at him, blue irises almost grey in the weak light of the hallway, all shadows and half-things. He raises a hand to grab hold of his and watches the two intersect, the pale pencil lines of Grantaire’s flesh turned abruptly translucent as Enjolras presses his palm against his. For a moment, he thinks he can feel the ridges of Grantaire’s callused skin – and then the moment is gone, and both of them are standing silent in the hallway, trapped in their own wishes and bottled dreams. Enjolras’ second hand reaches out reflexively for the gentle curve of Grantaire’s chin, but he snatches it back – the tension between them is palpable already, like paper, and he doesn’t want to break what’s already here between them. Not yet.

 _Not yet,_ he thinks again. _Not yet._ _It’s_ always _going to be that way, you know._

He doesn’t say that, either.

Grantaire lifts his head away from his hands to look at him, and the overhead light shivers with his movements. Quietly, he says:

“Thank you, Enj.”

They speak little after that. Some actions, Enjolras thinks, are louder than words. This one could move a seismograph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine Grantaire was somewhat inspired by the paintings of L.S. Lowry, many of which are on display in Manchester. They certainly have a “matchstick” quality to them that I’ve always admired.
> 
> Thanks again for putting up with my sporadic updates – I really appreciate all the nice comments I’ve received; it genuinely seems to help with that ever-present scourge, the dreaded writer’s block.


	10. Rust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras begins to put the pieces together.

The next few days run so smoothly in comparison to what has already happened during the past couple of weeks that even simply being on campus starts to make Enjolras nervous. He goes to lectures, buys groceries, visits his favourite café – all the while worrying about whatever waits for them all on the horizon; dusty and vague for the moment, but clearer soon, much clearer. When it hits – well, that’s when he’ll be in trouble, isn’t it?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. It doesn’t matter, because it’s coming for him anyway. He can’t avoid it. So he keeps buying groceries, keeps going to lectures and filling out forms and writing essays on the various failings of sad, pale British politicians, and tries not to think about the fact that he hasn’t seen Montparnasse since that dreadful Friday night and probably won’t see him again until it’s way, way too late. Without a cause to apply himself to – and Grantaire is not a cause – he finds himself feeling sluggish, more absent than ever before. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be going home soon. He just has to hang on in there. Somehow.

He’s only been here a month or so, and he’s already caving in. How typical. He nestles a little further into the comfy seat beside the café’s window and tries to remember how to breath. It’s then that he discovers just how well-worn this new haunt has become.

“Hey! Enjolras!”

He hasn’t seen Mavot since the Friday, and he can’t say looking up at him now makes him feel any better in that respect. Dread settles neatly into his stomach as Mavot drops into the chair beside him, nonchalant as he was the last time he interrupted Enjolras’ essay-writing. His entire day is turning out to be typical.

“Sorry. Were you working?” Mavot asks, just as Enjolras closes his laptop with a tired _snap!_ of the lid. He tells himself to be polite and just barely succeeds at it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, picking up his coffee and downing it in one. The caffeine is all that’s keeping him awake these days, it seems. “What’s up?”

Mavot ducks his head, scratching somewhat sheepishly at his mop of unruly red hair. The smile on his face fades as he looks up at Enjolras. “I just, uh. I heard you went with Pretot to that guy’s studio? Just wanted to check you were OK. Pretot mentioned—”

“I’m fine, Mavot.” Enjolras replies, cutting him off, sighing internally at _that guy’s studio._ It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t. He should just let it go. But it sticks to him anyway, like oil on the surface of the water, and the anger and the energy it lends him almost makes him feel better. He wonders, also, what Pretot mentioned. Hopefully nothing about the panic attack, and Enjolras’ still-absurd fear of dust. But Pretot doesn’t strike him as that sort of person, somehow.

Mavot, however, is _exactly_ that kind of person, albeit in a more kindly and doing-his-best fashion, but still. He has to be careful of what he says here. Very careful. It’s a moment before he adds: “It was only – I was just curious. Grantaire was a pretty amazing artist.”

Mavot eyes him back sceptically. “You’re interested in art?” he asks. “That’s why you went?”

That sounds shallow, doesn’t it. Damn Mavot, honestly.

“No,” he replies cautiously, “I – I wanted to know more about Grantaire as a person. I’m just saying, it makes sense that Pretot would keep those canvases; they’re brilliant.” He ducks his head, not entirely lying when he adds, “I wish I could’ve met him when he was alive. I would’ve liked to get to know him.”

“Did you tell Pretot what you told me?” Mavot badgers. “About – about there being something there, back at the flat?”

Another pause. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“So you’re not going back there, then?” he continues. “To the studio?”

Enjolras looks down at his empty coffee cup, suddenly wishing he could see the future. It would make all of this a hell of a lot easier. “I don’t know,” he says slowly, still not quite looking at the man opposite him, “I don’t think so.” His eyes flash upwards. “What do you ask, anyway?”

Mavot sits back at that. If Enjolras wasn’t so certain about Montparnasse’s involvement, he thinks, Mavot would definitely be on his list of suspects. The look in his eyes might even be considered guilty – the way he keeps following Enjolras around, making sure he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble. But it’s not guilt that powers him, really. It’s just a fear of showing care – which isn’t quite the same thing, but it’s close. This is his attempt to be like a big brother without being intrusive. It seems like an incredibly British thing to do.

“I just – I worry, you know?” Mavot says, and Enjolras knows it’s true from the way he’s refusing to look at him, playing with the plastic lid of his coffee cup instead of acting like a regular human being. Mavot is not a threat in the traditional sense – he’s just too good at interfering. His path of study makes sense now, perhaps. “I – don’t get too curious, yeah? You have a whole career to figure out – can’t do that from living in the past, can you? You just gotta—”

“Mavot?” he interrupts, sensing that Mavot is about to go on another of his fifteen-minute, often alcohol induced inspirational rants. “It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about me. I have – perfectly sensible curiosity.”

 _Incorrect, Enjolras_ , his brain helpfully supplies. _You have far, far too much of it._

Mavot seems to guess as much himself. He stands up from the table, sighing slightly, and picks up his bag by the chair. His gives Enjolras a long, hard look before going on his way.

“Curiosity killed the cat, my man, alright? Just – just think about it. And tell me if you need a transfer, for real. I’ll be right there.”

Enjolras heaves a deep breath. “All right,” he says. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Mavot stops at the door, the current waitress behind the coffee counter staring daggers at his back. He shouts back towards Enjolras’ table. “Make sure you do! And, uh, sorry about dumping you at the party on Friday. That was uncool. If you wanna come again, I’ll make sure I stay sober enough to introduce you to everyone. Pinkie promise and all that.”

And he’s gone. Enjolras heaves a sigh of relief, half-resting his head on his laptop, just as that same waitress stalks over to his table and asks him if he’d like another coffee. He gives her an apologetic look and tells her that he best be on his way. She looks grimly pleased about his decision.

Enjolras packs up his things as quickly as he can. His mind is already made up.

*

Enjolras walks his way to the studio in order to give himself more time to think. It doesn’t work. There are far, far too many people in this city, and hardly any of them seem to want to look where they’re going – it reminds him of that old parable, of the needle in the haystack – how can he hope to find the truth of Grantaire’s death amongst all these other lies? – and that question, in turn, makes him exhausted. By the time he’s passed St Peter’s Square, all of the energy has gone out of him. He hops onto the metro at the next stop.

The hairs on the back of Enjolras’ neck begin to rise long before he actually gets himself to Grantaire’s studio. The more he thinks, the less things seem to add up. That too-short list of evidence is gnawing on his bones like a parasite he just can’t shake.

One. If Montparnasse is not guilty of killing Grantaire, he is guilty of something else.

Two. Montparnasse’s car has a dented bumper. Grantaire, however, died more than a year ago. Why hasn’t it been changed? What’s so special about a car with tinted windows?

Three. The door of the studio is hanging wide open.

Enjolras stops in the middle of the street, glances quickly left and right, then steps into the building. It’s probably one of the most foolish things he’s ever done, but Enjolras is tired of being sensible.

When he enters, the room is silent. This, he realises, suddenly, is because the room is empty. There’s nobody here – either he just missed them, or this building has been vacated for a while. A glance around tells him it’s probably option one.

Preposition: Montparnasse – or someone like him – was just here.

Explanation: Grantaire has something that Montparnasse wants.

This is an easy conclusion to come to, Enjolras thinks, because everything around him is in disarray; the easels, the canvases, the desk with all of its quiet intricacies. The bottles of paint – some empty, some with lids on, never to be opened – are lying all over the floor. So is the disturbed bottle of turps. Sheets have been pulled from the shelves in the far corner – shelves Enjolras has never noticed before, crammed with boxes of abandoned watercolours, dented paintbrushes without bristles – and now lie in muffled heaps on the floor. The dust has been disturbed. He takes a breath and wonders if Grantaire feels this. The silence around him is no longer peaceful.

One of the windows at the far end of the studio is open. Enjolras walks over to it, fear fluttering in his chest.

“Hello?” he calls. He can see a glimpse of the narrow side street beyond, narrowed further by several metal bins and bags of rubbish, but nothing else. He sighs and steps back from the window, not yet daring to say anything further, or speak what he is now thinking out loud.

Preposition: Grantaire has something that Montparnasse wants.

Question: What it is?

It’s a fairly decent question, but he doesn’t know how to answer it. Still clutching at his bag, he allows his gaze to wander around the room, looking for the one thing that is undisturbed, without need to be ransacked. But there’s nothing. Even the canvases have been turned away from the wall, sprawled on top of each other in an ungainly heap. Enjolras crouches beside them, propping them up one by one, checking for scratches, tears – damage of any sort. They’re OK, for the most part. And then he comes to the matchstick painting, the one he loves most of all. Someone has stabbed a hole right in its centre, puncturing the people there, collapsing the walkways, the roads, the busy pavements. His heart aches to look at it. He could try to repair it, but it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing is ever the same after it is broken, he thinks. He jumps as his phone beeps sharply in his pocket.

_Saw you get on the metro. You heading to the studio again? P_

Mavot must have given him his number. Enjolras frowns and slips his phone into his pocket without replying, then stands up with the canvas in hand. He leans it back against the wall and closes the open window soon after. When he leaves, he takes the key from under the doormat with him, a creeping sense of unease slowly taking form within his chest. His skin shivers. The street is quiet enough that he can hear the placid ticking of his watch, over and over and on and on unto infinity, matching pace with his nervous heartbeat. It’s a lie. Everyone’s time runs out soon enough. Enjolras knows that for a certainty.

The half-formed picture in his head is slightly clearer now, he thinks. There can’t be that many things a guilty man would want.

*

The further he walks ( _a mistake, just go home_ ) the more he thinks ( _you’re never been to this part of Manchester before_ ) and the more he seems to realise that the truth is even simpler than he imagined. Montparnasse was at the party. But Enjolras already knows he doesn’t drink. He’s too sharp for that, made up as he is out of all those angles and lines. So what comes next?

_Grantaire was drunk; he said so himself. But is that all he was?_

Possibly. Possibly not. He weighs up each decision as it comes, his love of Grantaire vying with the urge to find the truth. After a moment, the truth wins out. Whether Grantaire was purely drunk or not is impossible to say – but as for Montparnasse…

Montparnasse does not drink, he thinks, but the person driving the car that killed his friend certainly acted like it. Not drink, then. But drugs. A Montparnasse doing lines in a shitty Manchester motel is much easier to picture than a Montparnasse downing glass after glass in a tightly-packed night bar. The picture sticks. He takes it for the truth, because if he takes if for the truth everything else begins to start falling into place. He should be more worried about that then he currently is, but Enjolras, like a fool, allows his curiosity to get the better of him once again.

He doesn’t see the other man until he’s almost directly on top of him, throwing Enjolras back against the wall with such force that he barely has time to react, crying out as the full weight of an invisible fist smacks into his side, a second striking out just below his throat, forcing him to draw breath. The streetlight just around the corner shatters suddenly and goes out. Heavy breathing – both his own and the man’s – fill the corrosive silence. His wrists are pinioned to the wall. The sudden _click_ of a lighter just beside him makes him flinch horribly against the concrete wall.

“Well, would you look at that?” says the man holding the lighter. His face is almost entirely obscured by the rim of his hat, but Enjolras knows exactly who he is, even without knowing his voice. Montparnasse lights a cigarette with the burning tip of his lighter and turns to blow a plume of ash-white smoke into Enjolras’ face. The hands holding him do not slacken. “I think we’ve finally found our man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment and/or some kudos.


	11. Crimson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras confronts Grantaire’s killer.

“You’re a troublesome kid, aren’t you?” Montparnasse says. Enjolras can barely hear him over the sound of his own frantic heart. He’s in trouble. Far too much trouble. “One would think you’d be more sensible about this. But then, too much curiosity can be lethal…”

His voice has a strange quality to it – he’s furious, but there’s not a trace of that in his voice; in a way, he sounds exactly like he looks: ever calm, ever collected, like a cat stalking its prey. Enjolras shivers to hear it. It is a voice that brooks no argument. No room for discussion, or explanation.

He stays quiet.

“Anyone else would assume you’d had assistance,” he purrs, moving forward to press one long-fingered hand against Enjolras’ jaw. Enjolras squirms away from him, but the hands holding him down are like a vice. “But I don’t think so, somehow. You’re just a stupid little kid who doesn’t know his place. So, before you find out any more about what you’re not supposed to, a reminder from myself: don’t.” He signals to his companion, and Enjolras doubles over as he strikes out again, his fist connecting with Enjolras’ abdomen. But in the same moment, his grip on Enjolras’ wrists slacken, and that’s when the fight begins in earnest.

He’s not used to fighting – he’s not Bahoral, he doesn’t have the sheer strength of will to keep on landing punch after punch, nor is he particularly physically strong. But he tries his best. Right now, his best is all his has.

“Get _hold_ of him, goddammit!” Montparnasse yells, as Enjolras slams his elbow into the nearer man’s stomach, winding him and moving quickly up the alleyway. Montparnasse is not short of companions by any stretch; there are at least two more men looming up behind him; one large, and one short and thin. Enjolras kicks out blindly as two spindly arms reach out from behind to pull him back, and then he’s running down the alleyway, blind but for the light pollution in the sky and the burning red of Montparnasse’s cigarette just behind. He doesn’t get very far.

“Babet!” Montparnasse yells. A previously unseen shadow steps out from the blackness; Enjolras steps sideways to avoid him, but Babet is quicker, aiming a kick at Enjolras’ legs and sending him sprawling across the ground. Enjolras’ knees hit the ground first; he throws out his hands to stop himself from skidding, wincing as the grit digs itself deep into the scrapes on his palms. When someone pulls him up from the ground, he’s helpless to resist. His knees are bleeding and his eyes are full of dust.

“Bring him here,” Montparnasse snarls, his voice slightly muffled, and as he is pushed in front of him Enjolras understands why. His mouth is bleeding from where Enjolras kicked him; a split lip, by the looks of things. It stands in odd contrast with the rest of his pretty face; Enjolras is unsurprised to find he doesn’t regret the action in the slightest. He sets his jaw in a frown, tilting up his head to glare at him in defiance.

“You killed Grantaire,” is the first thing he says to him, because he knows he’s right now and there’s no need to avoid the truth any longer. He knows. It might not have been on purpose, but he _knows_. “You killed Grantaire and I have the proof.”

Montparnasse scoffs at him; he doesn’t deny it. “You don’t have proof,” he counters, “Suspicions and accusations are not proof. A dented car bumper is not proof. All you have is speculation.”

“You broke into Grantaire’s studio.”

“Yes,” snarls Montparnasse, “and you live in what used to be his flat. What a small world this is.” He smiles widely at Enjolras; his teeth are perfectly straight. Everything about him is perfect, aside from his mouth and eyes. The mouth is bloody; the eyes are dead. Enjolras looks up at him and allows himself to frown. Babet is holding onto him so hard that his wrists are starting to hurt. He hates this.

Every last ounce of fear within him has been converted suddenly into rage – just as suddenly, he finds he doesn’t really care about the consequences anymore. He just wants to know he’s right.

“R was facing dismissal from the university,” he gets out, struggling against Babet’s grip even as he digs his nails into Enjolras’ wrists. “It wasn’t just because he was drunk, was it? It was because of what they found on him. Drugs. Your drugs. You’re a god damn dealer and you allowed Grantaire to take the fall for you, you—”

Montparnasse steps forward, the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke drifting with him. He reaches out a hand to run his fingers through Enjolras’ hair – then yanks it back, pulling Enjolras’ head with it. His grip is iron-like. Enjolras’ breathing is loud in his ears.

“Do not push me,” Montparnasse growls, each word punctuated with the tightening of his fingers. A headache blossoms at Enjolras’ temples. He bites down on his lip, determined not to show pain, and watches as Montparnasse smiles thinly. His voice is barely more than a whisper; it’s not hard to be able to see the malice within it. Enjolras can hardly avoid it. But his mouth, like always, doesn’t know when to shut up. Montparnasse releases his hand the same instance Enjolras jerks away from him. He refuses to be afraid any longer.

“Grantaire bought something from you. It was still in his apartment the day he died. It’s _been_ there ever since Pretot bought the lease. But you only realised that once I went back to look, right?” Behind his eyelids, the image of the matchstick painting flickers. “He hid it in one of the canvases. I’m surprised you didn’t slash them all—get _off_ me!” he snaps, kicking back at Babet with a fresh rush of vehemence. He can’t tolerate it anymore, he just _can’t_. He moves his wrists out of Babet’s reach. Babet goes to grab him again, but Montparnasse raises a hand.

“No. He’s not going anywhere. He’s too curious for that.” His dark eyes flicker close, watching Enjolras rub at his wrists. Enjolras watches him back.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re already guilty – of that, and I dare say a whole lot else. Hitting Grantaire with your car was a god damn _convenience_.”

Montparnasse’s reply is biting; his rage contained by three simple syllables. “How _dare_ you. If you think I am in the habit of _murdering_ my clientele, you can think again. That is not my style.”

“You killed him!”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “A consequence.”

A third voice floats out from between the two dust bins at the end of the alleyway. Enjolras recognises it instantly.

“Bit of a messy one, though. Especially for you.”

Montparnasse whips round; Enjolras’ eyes following his. The four surrounding them, however, do not move. Not a single one of them can see Grantaire’s ghost hovering just behind; Enjolras, for one, finds he is not surprised in the least. He can feel Babet shifting from foot to foot just behind him, unnerved by the sudden silence that has crept over both accuser and attacker. What’s more, Montparnasse sees it too.

“You’re dismissed,” he growls to Babet, ignoring his frightened eyes. He glances back at the other three, expertly avoiding Grantaire’s translucent gaze. Enjolras watches him as he barks out his orders: “All of you! Go! Now!”

They scatter, Babet glancing over his shoulder as he goes. Grantaire steps closer. Montparnasse, by contrast, steps back.

“What the hell is this?” he hisses, but without much conviction, because Enjolras is convinced he knows Grantaire’s ghost is as real as anything – he can see the panic in his eyes. Grantaire takes another step forward, eyeing Montparnasse up and down. His eyes are left resting on Enjolras.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he says quietly. Enjolras raises a hand to his face and realises he is right. Several drops of blood have already fallen onto his sweater.

Grantaire looks _wretched_. He watches Montparnasse carefully for a moment, staying still with his hands in his pockets, and then he speaks.

“You killed me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Montparnasse replies, rolling his eyes. “I was high. It was an accident. You know how accidents can be sometimes.”

“Right, but you still didn’t turn yourself in.”

“What for? It wouldn’t have helped. You were dead before you got to the hospital. I might feel bad, Grantaire, but not bad enough to go to prison for it. I have business to attend to.”

Grantaire’s eyes go suddenly hard. “You ruined Éponine’s life.”

Now Montparnasse _does_ look a little uncomfortable. “She’s better off now,” he says quietly, “She got off the drug scene. Last time I heard she was training to be a teacher. It really isn’t my fault, you know?”

Realisation clicks suddenly in Enjolras’ mind. He feels mildly disgusted by the well-dressed man in front of him. “You’re the one who got Éponine hooked in the first place, aren’t you? God. I can’t believe she still fucking talks to you.”

At Montparnasse’s twisted expression, Grantaire says quietly, “He knows her, Parnasse. They work together as activists in Paris. And, frankly, I don’t see you getting off the hook for that either. You were bad for Ép. But at least my murder had an upside. It got her away from you.”

“I don’t need this,” Montparnasse snarls, “I don’t need you chasing me. I want to be left alone.”

It takes a moment for the implications of Montparnasse’s words to truly sink in. When they do, Enjolras’ insides still. “I’ll report you,” he gets out. He tries to look determined but can’t quite manage it, even with the blood dripping steadily out of his nose. “I will.”

Montparnasse laughs – it’s an ugly, discordant sound, without a trace of mercy. “No, you won’t,” he says. “You don’t have any evidence—unless you count the testimony of a ghost. I’ll never admit I was there that night and neither you nor the police can make me. It’s as simple as that.”

Enjolras glares at him in defiance, but Grantaire just sighs. He looks thoroughly defeated.

“Come on, Enj,” he says, tiredness leaking into every syllable of his speech, “He won’t listen. And you really can’t force him.”

“But it’s important!” Enjolras can’t believe this. It’s their only chance. He can’t give up on Grantaire now, not now he has almost everything he needs to fix this. “You’re important. You can’t go home unless—”

Montparnasse cuts across him, scoffing. “Oh, dear me,” he drawls. “I didn’t realise this was some kind of tragic love story. Trying to save your boyfriend from hell, are you? Well, tough. I’m not helping. Not even if you ask nicely. I have a business to be running here and I won’t have it ruined by your ridiculous run-around rumours. Now get the hell out of here.” His glance lingers on Grantaire’s translucent form. It’s not a fond look, nor a sad one. “You were one hell of a bastard when you were alive, you know that? Always drunk, always desperate. I liked that version a lot better. At least the Grantaire I knew had the sense to keep his mouth shut. You’re nothing but an empty shell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my cat for spilling water on my keyboard halfway through writing this. A solid move.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or some kudos. Support is always appreciated.


	12. Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras attempts to bring equilibrium to his situation.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire doesn’t look up. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone looking so thoroughly dejected. There’s something of a maelstrom lurking within his chest.

“Grantaire, please.”

The ghostly figure of Grantaire lifts his head, staring at Enjolras from the other end of the sofa. His eyes have lost their shine, he thinks. Somehow, he is so much more ghost than he was before. So much less human. It figures.

“I don’t understand why you had to go behind my back,” he says softly, which is almost worse than nothing. Enjolras aches.

“I thought – I thought you might stop me,” he manages eventually. “If I told you.” He ducks down his head. “I suppose I hoped that I was—”

“Wrong? Really?” Grantaire counters. He’s too exhausted to sound truly angry, but Enjolras flinches anyway. “This is Montparnasse we’re talking about. He’s a criminal, Enj! And you – you followed him to his car!”

“No, I didn’t,” Enjolras replies mulishly, though the distinction is hardly important. “I went _looking_ for his car. He just happened to see me, that’s all. _I_ didn’t know I was being followed home.”

“You lied to me about the studio, too.”

The pain in his sternum grows worse. This is the one lie he does not wish to be accused of. “No,” he whispers. “No, that’s not true. I wanted to see your work. I wanted to see all of it.”

“You wanted to look through my stuff,” Grantaire counters, “And look through all of the junk I’d left behind, in the hope that you’d find something incriminating. It says a hell of a lot about how much you trust me, you know.”

Enjolras shakes his head, then shakes it again. “That is not – that is not true,” he insists, his speech stumbling as he seeks to find the right words. He just wants to _help_. He’s never wanted anything less. And now everything has been turned topsy-turvy. He’s found the criminal, but not the solution. It’s driving him _wild_. “That only occurred to me _later—_ ”

“That I was untrustworthy?”

“Pretot never went through your stuff,” Enjolras says to him, trying to be patient. It’s a struggle; his heart is beating like mad. Blood is pounding in his ears. “I thought – if anything had been left behind, anything at all – it would still be there. And it was. But Montparnasse got to it first. I wasn’t expecting that. Or for him to – to close in like that.” He shrugs his shoulders, suddenly wishing he could just go to bed – abandon Grantaire, abandon everything. But he can’t. He feels too much of an obligation to him – and to himself. Enjolras has always loved too much, too deeply. It’s one of his greatest flaws.

One of his biggest regrets. He tugs at the nearest blanket, lifting it up and wrapping it around his shoulders, running a hand along its embroidered surface. He wants to disappear.

Grantaire’s reprimand is angry, accusatory. “You should have been more careful.”

“I was careful,” Enjolras replies. It’s a lie, like always. “He would’ve found me anyway.”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire cries. He actually sounds kind of angry. “You could have got yourself killed! I’m not that important.”

Enjolras stops running his hand along the blanket. Turns to look at him. “Who says you’re not important?”

Grantaire stares back at him sadly. “Enj—”

He can’t say it. He won’t say it. But he wants to. “I wanted to help you,” he says, instead of _I love you_. “I wanted – Jesus, I don’t know. I thought I could get you out of this. Out of waiting.”

“Maybe I don’t _mind_ waiting,” says Grantaire stubbornly, but Enjolras can tell he doesn’t mean it. All the fight has gone out of his voice. “I could wait with you. That would be something.”

His heart clenches again. “You could be waiting forever.”

“All the more time to spend – here.” Grantaire gets out. Counting his breaths, Enjolras gets up to turn off the nearby lamp. It’s too bright in here. It takes more self-control than it ought to walk back over to the sofa and sit down without looking at the man opposite. It’s a moment before he can breathe, even. He’s surprised by how angry he feels.

“I’m going to leave here one day, you know. I’m going to go back to France. I know I am. And when I do, you’ll be all alone. So why the hell—”

“I already _died_ , Enj! Do you really think I want to do it again?”

That hurts him, but he pushes forwards. He isn’t trying to kill Grantaire and, what’s more, Grantaire knows it. “R, you’re being ridiculous. It wouldn’t – it wouldn’t turn out like that. Not again.”

Grantaire folds his arms. “You don’t know that.”

“Is this better?” Enjolras asks him. “Not being able to touch people, have other people see you? You can’t even go _home—_ ”

Grantaire purses his lips. He looks more stubborn than Enjolras has ever seen him – the same is probably true for himself. His arms are folded and he can feel the heat rising to his face, but he doesn’t care. Something strange is tugging at his sternum, different from the despair of before.

“I have you,” Grantaire says at last. “That’s – enough. To be going on with. You see me because you want to see me, and—”

“Hold on,” Enjolras interrupts. He’s going to have to break that last bit down a piece at a time, but right now he’s still struggling with those first three words. He has three words of his own he’d really like to say right now.

_I love you._

_I’m trying to_ help _you_.

_Why won’t you listen to me?_

He knows the answer to that last one, of course. It’s because Grantaire is afraid. It’s because he’s scared of what might be coming next. And yet—

No, that’s ridiculous. Grantaire doesn’t love him back. He already knows that. Grantaire just likes his company. Grantaire just wants…

He doesn’t know quite what Grantaire wants, exactly, Enjolras realises, because he’s never actually _asked_ him. He’s always just assumed. Assumed that Grantaire wants to be free, wants to be rid of – of whatever this is. But that’s a perfectly natural assumption, isn’t it? Grantaire is afraid of being stuck here forever; Enjolras had interpreted that as wanting to escape. But he’s never asked. Perhaps now is the time for it.

“Grantaire,” he says, “What do you want?”

Grantaire looks totally surprised for a moment, his mouth hanging open like a goldfish. Then, he stutters into life. “What do I – for heaven’s sake, Enjolras—”

“I’m not being facetious,” Enjolras replies, though admittedly he does now feel slightly irked. “I’m asking you: what do you want? Do you want… to leave? Or to stay or—”

Grantaire brushes a hand against his face, apparently despairing. “I don’t want for you to end up dead.”

“Right, but that’s not what I—”

“I want you,” Grantaire says, so slowly and deliberately that for a moment Enjolras thinks he must have misheard him. But then Grantaire is saying it again. “I want you – here – with me. I want you to stay.” He pauses, then gives a sad little sigh. “I want to be alive. I want – I want to kiss you.”

Enjolras puts down the blanket. It doesn’t seem as if he has a choice. Grantaire looks terrible. Worse than terrible. Words fail Enjolras for the first time in years. He thinks about Montparnasse’s brutal comments, of the shocked expression on Grantaire’s face as had accused Enjolras of being his boyfriend. Not shock at all, he realises now, but longing.

“I think,” he says slowly, trying to encourage the words back into his throat, “I think I want to kiss you too. But R—”

He stands up, abandoning the blanket as he sits down next to Grantaire on his half of the sofa – it’s late at night now, or perhaps even very, very early in the morning, and with the lights off the walls and ceiling above are bleached in a terrible rawness, the light from the street lamp outside casting a pall over Enjolras’ textbooks and pens, piled up on top of the dining table at the far side of the room. That orange glow is all he really sees for a moment, analogue-raw and unaware of sunlight, and then the moment shifts, and Grantaire is pressing his ghostly face to his, and for one wild moment Enjolras thinks the laws of the universe might enable them to kiss after all. But that moment does not come.

He feels his body falling forwards through the air, gliding through mist as the ghostly impression of Grantaire’s lips press up against his own. They hold together for a second, and then—

And then nothing. He stops moving, because Grantaire has grabbed hold of the back of his sweatshirt, big enough and loose enough that it doesn’t quite count as a part of him, and Enjolras doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or not. This isn’t enough; it won’t ever be enough. They can’t live like this forever, Grantaire knows it perfectly well, and yet—

“Well,” Grantaire says. For one long, long moment, he seems completely unable to say anything else. His eyes are mere centimetres from Enjolras’ face. “I guess this is us, now.” Enjolras blinks at him.

“I guess it is,” he says. They don’t move until the sun comes up and the street lamp turns itself off. Even then, Enjolras is reluctant to remove himself from what is otherwise a perpetually warm embrace. He can’t feel the cold, not now.

 _Life isn’t fair_ , he thinks to himself. But it doesn’t help. It never does.

*

Time passes, as it is warrant to do, and gradually, day by day, Enjolras manages to turn his mind to other things. The constant ache in his chest is only slightly eased by the presence of normalcy. It’s Grantaire that helps him the most.

The most comfortable days are monotonous, which in itself is strange. Previously, Enjolras might have claimed that he could never be content with boredom – but now, suddenly, he is. He goes to his nine am lectures without complaint, takes notes, holds short, well-intentioned conversations with his peers, never attempting to know them better than their names and courses. He gains a reputation for being distant – in some instances, almost ghostly – but can’t quite bring himself to change it, or alter his future in any tangible way. He lays plans for his future career, gets a part-time job at his favourite café alongside his least favourite waitress, and he makes do.

He goes home and types up essays, makes notes in his heavy, expensive textbooks, and tells himself he can’t do anything more about what’s already passed on, even if he wanted to – and he doesn’t. He goes home to a house capable of turning on its own lights – to Grantaire – and finds peace within the little things. He tries to convince himself that he’s content, but he isn’t, not really. Even when they’re sat close together on the sofa, with Enjolras wrapped up tight in a blanket to ward off Grantaire’s natural cold, he is not content. He wonders why that is, and the inevitable answer sparks a hollowness in his chest that lasts for many days afterwards. Enjolras knows that Grantaire feels it too.

Here is the truth: He does not have what he wants.

Here is another truth: He never _will_ have what he wants, because Grantaire is dead.

So when Enjolras walks past the foyer of the main university building, he doesn’t know what to think. Because there’s a flyer posted up on the opposite wall – more of a poster, really, with its large, block lettering and careful statement of reward – asking those with information relating to Grantaire’s death to come forward. He doesn’t quite know how to _feel_ , either, which is probably the bigger issue, all things considered. He starts as a hand taps him on the shoulder from behind. Pretot’s eyes smile at him from behind his glasses.

“Hey,” he says. “You OK?” Enjolras watches as he glances up at the poster, whereupon his mouth tightens ever so slightly into a frown. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Mavot put those up,” he murmurs to Enjolras, leaning close to the wall as a swathe of students crowd their way past them. “I asked him why, but he wouldn’t answer – I don’t suppose you ever found out who trashed Grantaire’s studio?” he adds, changing topic. Enjolras closes his eyes briefly.

“I – no,” he says decisively. He still hasn’t told Pretot about Montparnasse’s warning. He’s not sure, now, if he ever will. Hopefully he won’t press too hard. “I never found out. I think I might have been chasing a dead end, if you want the truth.”

Pretot gives a non-committal hum. “I’m not so sure that _is_ the truth,” and for a moment Enjolras’ lungs constrict so tightly he can hardly breath. Then, Pretot shrugs. “But it’s fine. I’m almost done cleaning it now. You were right; it needed doing. You wouldn’t _believe_ the kinds of things I’ve found in those cupboards.”

He probably can’t, Enjolras thinks. Even now, weeks after telling Grantaire how he feels about him, he knows no more about the man than when he started investigating. It shouldn’t sting so much, but it does. He will always be slightly a stranger, in so many ways.

“What about the canvases?” he asks suddenly. “You haven’t gotten rid of them, have you?”

Pretot shakes his head. “Never,” he says. “I’ve still got the broken one, even. Taped it up. Doesn’t look the same, but, ah—” He scratches at his neck, smiling ruefully. “You know. Sentiment, I guess. Shame someone didn’t agree, but that’s life for you.”

Enjolras smiles back, but the expression is lacquer-thin. He looks again at the poster. It has a picture of Grantaire on it from his days in university, which doesn’t help his curdling stomach in the slightest. “Where’d Mavot get that?” he asks Pretot. “The picture?”

Pretot shrugs. “Dunno,” he replies. “Online, probably. Probably from Éponine’s Facebook wall or something. I’m not so sure he had one himself.”

Enjolras keeps looking, thinking hard – and slightly guiltily – about how Éponine has never once mentioned Grantaire in their conversations together. They still don’t know each other that well, of course, but nonetheless…

He’s never seen a picture of Grantaire before, he realises. It’s doing funny things to his insides, to look at Grantaire as a living person, even if it’s just a photograph. He looks brighter, happier, fuller. More content with the world than afraid of it. But then, this is only a snapshot in time. In this universe, he reminds himself, things still turn out bad for Grantaire, even if the man in the photograph believes he’ll be living out a life of eternal peace. The more he thinks about it, the more unnerving that joyous smile becomes. He shivers. Pretot pats him on the shoulder. He probably knows what Enjolras is thinking, albeit in a different kind of context.

“Don’t worry,” he says, picking up his bag from the floor and slinging it over one shoulder. “I doubt anything will come of it. It’s just Mavot being Mavot, after all.”

*

Enjolras, despite his faith in Pretot, remains understandably cautious throughout the day. He drops off his essay. He goes to another boring seminar and tries his best to stay awake. He gets told off by his tutor for failing to hand in some statement or other for an extra-curricular Enjolras doesn’t remember signing up for. He earns less than ten pounds in tips during his shift at his favourite café. Nothing unusual; nothing out of the ordinary. But he doesn’t relax. Even when things are good, he doesn’t relax. The knowledge that Mavot has disturbed something he shouldn’t by putting up those posters keeps eating at him, and he finds himself walking home with butterflies in his stomach even despite the fact it’s barely four in the afternoon. It won’t be dark, yet, for an hour at least. He’s fine. He’s OK.

The next corner of the block he’s in reveals Montparnasse standing threateningly beneath a lamppost. He feels vindicated, then, at least.

Even a broken clock is twice right a day. Stupid anxiety. Stupid false sense of security. It never does anyone any good.

Montparnasse looks up at him, arching an eyebrow. “I would like to have a word.” he says. Enjolras stops and looks at him and wonders if he’s joking.

“Just one?” he asks. Montparnasse glowers.

“Four.” he says shortly. And then: “Take down those posters.”

“I didn’t put them up.”

“I don’t care. Take them down, or I will make your life as unpleasant as I possibly can. I’m not a patient person, you know.”

Enjolras rubs gingerly at his nose. “I know.” he replies. He looks Parnasse up and down and wonders how he got here. Here, talking to some criminal fop about wanted posters for a man long dead. He almost laughs. It’s absurd, all of it – but that doesn’t make it false. Montparnasse cracks his knuckles. His lips, Enjolras notes with some satisfaction, are still slightly swollen. Good.

“You haven’t given me an answer.”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll ask Mavot to take down the posters.” He frowns for a moment, considering the implications of Montparnasse’s demands for the first time – and then it hits him. “Wait. Who else would have dirt on you? Not Pretot, right?”

Montparnasse’s glares become suddenly more pronounced. “If I were you,” he says delicately, “I would stop talking.”

But Enjolras can’t. He never can. “He does, doesn’t he? He’s already figured this out. After you broke into the studio—”

Parnasse hits him. Hard. Enjolras stumbles backwards, half colliding with the wall behind, too slow to react as Montparnasse’s fist connects with his left eye, and then again with the side of his head. He punches far better than Babet or any of the others – and harder, too. Enjolras’ jaw makes an uncomfortable sound as he tries to prop himself up – and then suddenly he’s on the ground again, and he’s not even in an alleyway this time, for Christ’s sake—

“That was for my mouth,” Montparnasse growls. “Take down those posters, won’t you?”

Enjolras sets his head back against the wall, trying to stand up, but his legs feel disconnected from his body. This is ridiculous, he thinks. Even without adding Montparnasse into the equation, all of this is completely ridiculous. He refuses to be afraid of comic book villains, even if they can punch. It’s too absurd for words.

The pain in his head, however, is frighteningly realistic. Enjolras presses a hand to his forehead and watches as the world grows fuzzy. He’s still vaguely annoyed by Montparnasse’s stupid hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just hit page two of the entire six page plan, guys. Finally. It’s been eight months.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave some kudos or a comment. Or a hug. Hugs are also valid currency for my writing labours.


	13. Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things in this world that even the wisest men cannot know.

“Enjolras? Can you hear me?”

It’s like waking up from a dream. Enjolras pulls himself to the surface of his consciousness, suddenly aware that he’s not where he should be – there’s something soft and lumpy propped up under his head, and he’s several inches further from the wall than he remembers falling. Shapes loom. His eyes focus. It’s Pretot standing over him – Pretot, with Mavot just behind. He groans and shuts his eyes. He can’t deal with this. Not now.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras lets out a sigh and opens his eyes again, looking up at Pretot with an expression that he hopes doesn’t show more than is currently necessary. He feels bruised all over – new hurts in addition to the old ones, like the ring of bruises Babet had left drawn close around both his wrists. His left eye feels slightly swollen. With that realisation, he swears and sits up.

“Oh,” he hears Mavot say, “He’s fine.”

He really isn’t, though. His ears are ringing like he has a concussion, and his jaw feels much the same. His ribs feel unusual, too. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

“Here,” Pretot says, holding an out a hand as Enjolras struggles to his feet. There’s a doubtful tone in his voice that seems to suggest he doesn’t entirely trust Mavot’s judgement – and with reason. Enjolras is fairly sure there’s one heck of a black eye forming on his face right now. He’s so angry about it all he hardly has any room for fear. But pain is not an emotion.

He staggers as Pretot heaves him to his feet, the concussion weighting his movements so much that he can hardly stay upright. Pretot lifts a hand to his shoulder, looking carefully at his eyes. His expression is indecipherable. Enjolras ducks his head away.

Blearily, he thinks about Pretot clearing out Grantaire’s studio. He wishes he could ask about what he found. It doesn’t matter, not really, but nevertheless…

“He’s got a concussion,” Pretot announces to Mavot, as if Enjolras isn’t standing right there in front of them. He looks back at Enjolras; this time, Enjolras holds his gaze. “Can you walk? Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

“God, no.” Enjolras finds himself saying. He realises it’s true only a second after saying it. “No, I—I’m fine. I just need to—” He wobbles unsteadily as he twists round to look for his things, and finds his bag half-hidden in the crevice of the nearby wall. Pretot lifts up his own bag from the ground from where it’s been acting as Enjolras’ makeshift pillow, and looks at him firmly. Enjolras honestly can’t tell whether he’s angry or not.

“Come on,” he says, and for a moment his voice is like Montparnasse’s – arguing with him is fruitless. “We’ll walk you home.”

Mavot, because he is Mavot, happily accepts this. He takes Enjolras’ bag from him before he can put it on his shoulder, silencing his protests with a wave of his hand. “No, no,” he says, “It’s fine.” But Enjolras can tell from both of their faces that it isn’t fine at all. They have questions – they’re just too polite to ask them. That doesn’t mean Enjolras is prepared to give them any answers.

“It’s nothing,” he says, which is probably one of the more absurd things he’s ever said in the company of these two, give a comment or two about ghosts. Then he changes his mind (and swallows his dignity) and says: “I got mugged.”

Pretot and Mavot look at each other. Then Pretot says, “Right. OK.” Neither of them say anything more about it. In another world, Enjolras thinks, he would’ve enjoyed being friends with these two. Even when they don’t believe him, they still don’t ask any questions.

The flat is not far; both Pretot and Mavot seem to know the way anyway, so Enjolras doesn’t bother them with directions; he takes his bag back from Mavot after about a hundred paces and stumbles somewhat dazedly after them. He’s still angry, for what it’s worth. But even Enjolras isn’t one to ignore a very explicit warning.

“Mavot,” he says, as the three of them walk together down the street, ignoring how bizarre it feels, after all this time, to not be returning home alone, “Why did you put those posters up?”

He sees Pretot glance sharply at him out of the corner of his eye, but the latter doesn’t comment as Mavot says with a shrug, “I thought it might be useful.” When Enjolras continues to look at him, he adds, “You know, with you checking out Grantaire’s studio and all, and Pret doing all that cleaning, I thought – I thought maybe someone might want to come forward. It’s been over a year.”

Half a pace behind, Pretot sighs heavily. He seems to resent Mavot’s use of a nickname almost as much as the topic itself. “Mavot, come on. There’s nobody _to_ come forward in the first place. It was the middle of the night.”

“Right, but—”

Enjolras interrupts him hurriedly. It feels somewhat like being stuck in the centre of a tennis match. “I think you should take them down,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. Both of them turn to look at him.

“Does this have something to do with your eye?” Pretot asks. Enjolras, almost automatically, winces.

“I can’t tell you,” he replies, half-wanting to protect Grantaire’s secret, and half-afraid that Montparnasse might somehow overhear him even now. A comic book villain with eyes everywhere. “But, uh. I would appreciate it. If you would.”

Pretot glances past him to look at Mavot. His expression is, once again, inscrutable. The scene is not helped by the fact that both Pretot and Mavot are taller than him.

“God knows you haven’t helped so far,” Pretot mutters, a second sigh clenched between his teeth. He looks at Mavot the same way one might look at a particularly reprehensible ex-boyfriend. “I agree with Enjolras.”

Mavot, strangely, looks rather hurt by this – but only for a second. The look is banished as quickly as it had appeared. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll take them down. I just thought—”

Pretot looks at him again, a smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

*

It’s only as they draw closer to the flat itself that Enjolras realises what he’s done. He can’t let Pretot and Mavot into the flat – _Grantaire_ is there. Even if they can’t see him – and Enjolras thinks that they might – it really isn’t fair to let them in without any prior warning. And Enjolras really, really doesn’t want to be the one to tell Pretot of all people that ghosts exist after all. His insides quail at the very thought of it. He stops at the end of the street.

“You can leave me here,” he says to them, hoping his face isn’t as guilty as it looks. “I’ll be all right.”

Pretot looks at him, raising his eyebrows. “We’ve come all this way,” he says, looking mildly put out, even for Pretot. “We might as well walk you to your flat.”

Swallowing his sigh, Enjolras lets them. There really is no way to insist otherwise. They already think he’s crackers, don’t they? Maybe there’s some merit in that assumption, too. At this point, Enjolras can hardly say he isn’t – he spends half of his time these days talking to someone who is already dead.

He unlocks the door, watching as Pretot and Mavot follow on after him. It’s surreal to have the two of them inside the same building – so surreal that Enjolras is struggling to keep his face straight. His balance fails quickly after.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Pretot mutters, reaching out to steady him. He glances around the narrow, dimly lit hallway for Mavot – and finds him pouring over the other tenants’ mail, spread out on a long table not far from the doorway. Enjolras watches as he looks up, startled. A familiar grin reaches across his face.

“Nothing for you,” he comments cheerfully. Pretot sighs, his hand draped over his face. He gives Enjolras a little push to start him up the stairs.

“I deserve a coffee,” he mutters, just as Mavot clambers up after them. Enjolras says nothing. He doesn’t know what Pretot deserves, exactly, but he’s afraid of what he might yet get.

*

In the end, of course, Enjolras has nothing to worry about – because Grantaire isn’t there. To call the current circumstances an anti-climax would be an understatement, he thinks. Regardless, Pretot gets his coffee – and Mavot gets his tour.

“You don’t have a lot of stuff,” he announces, making his way back into the living room, where Enjolras and Pretot are sat on the sofa, mugs of coffee in hand. Enjolras is also holding a bag of frozen peas – the act, however ridiculous, does at least serve to ease the growing swelling around his eye. He makes a mental note to construct a dart board in the shape of Parnasse’s face in the near-future, then twists sideways to face Mavot.

“Does it matter?” he asks him. “It’s only a flat..”

Mavot flicks idly through Enjolras’ abandoned textbooks before sitting down on the sofa between them.

“Just saying,” he replies, as Pretot hands him his coffee. He sips it thoughtfully for a moment. “You have a lot of hair products, though.”

Enjolras chooses to ignore that. It’s a conversation he’s had before, and it never ends well. He watches Pretot put down his coffee with something like relief.

“If you’re done interrogating Enjolras’ things,” he says, one eyebrow raised imperiously, “Maybe we should go?”

Mavot mutters something under his breath, then slurps down the rest of his coffee; Enjolras winces at the sound. He plops his mug down next to Pretot’s – too late, Enjolras thinks about coffee rings – before standing up and joining the other man in putting on his coat. It’s surreal to watch them leaving. After a moment, Enjolras stands up too.

“You sure you’re all right?” Pretot asks him, as Enjolras walks them both over to the door. Enjolras carefully adjusts the bag of peas. He looks ridiculous and he knows it. Best not to make his rage too obvious, though.

“I’m fine,” he says. It’s all Pretot’s been asking him since they got here, but Enjolras knows only too well that he’s not the only one with secrets. If he’s right, then Pretot probably knows a little something about Montparnasse as well. If he’s wrong…

Well, it happens. Enjolras can deal with another disappointment if he has to. Though the first one was more than enough. This weird moment of normalcy seems quite unsettling by comparison. He looks up at Pretot and tries to smile.

“Thanks,” he tells him. “For – for going to all this trouble. And I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Pretot asks, but the expression in his eyes tells Enjolras that he knows. They don’t say any more about it.

Mavot tugs a hat over his wild red hair and turns to Enjolras with a grin. “Thanks for the coffee,” he says. “You should get yourself a cool lampshade or something.”

Enjolras lets out a laugh; he can’t help it. There’s this aching melancholy inside of him that he can’t quite discern – this isn’t going to happen again, and he knows it, but he doesn’t know why that makes him feel sad. He misses his friends. He misses being open. That’s all it is. It’s a little thing, really.

It’s a little thing, but it feels like his chest is caving in. He opens the door.

“See you soon, Enjolras,” Pretot says. Enjolras just nods. There are words, he thinks, for moments like these. He closes the door after them, listening for the _click!_ of the lock, then sighs into the quiet.

“Grantaire?” he asks. The silence does not answer until he walks back into the living room.

“Here,” Grantaire’s voice whispers, as Enjolras bends down to pick up the mugs. Enjolras jumps and turns around.

“Were you here?” he asks, “Or… out?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer him for a moment, his expression far-off and distant. Finally, he eyes refocus on Enjolras. “Here,” he replies, equally quietly. There’s a moment before he adds: “Pretot looks older than I remember.”

Enjolras can’t say anything to that. He’s not sure anyone ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought about this passage from the Brick a lot whilst writing this chapter:
> 
> Among them was observed a certain Mavot, who never remained more than a week in one shop, as the masters always discharged him “because they were obliged to dispute with him every day.” Mavot was killed on the following day at the barricade of the Rue Menilmontant. Pretot, who was destined to perish also in the struggle, seconded Mavot, and to the question: “What is your object?” he replied: “Insurrection.”
> 
> A beta reader mentioned that these two are kind of boyfriends. I did not disagree.


	14. Cedar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras goes looking for Grantaire.

They don’t speak much the next day. Grantaire asks, briefly, about Enjolras’ black eye – now a smarting purple, thanks to Montparnasse – but the discussion doesn’t go further than the posters, and Enjolras’ suspicions about Pretot and what he knows, before the conversation fizzles out again. He loves Grantaire too much for this, he thinks. He loves him so much that Grantaire’s sadness has become his own. It doesn’t seem to help either of them, really, this symbiotic sympathy. Solutions continue to elude them both.

He tells Grantaire he’s heading out at nine am for a lecture, but really, it’s more of a way to escape than a necessity. He shuffles guiltily in his seat the entire way through.

On his way back out of the lecture hall, he walks by the main foyer again and notes with relief that Mavot’s poster is gone – which hopefully means all the others are gone, too. Enjolras is slightly impressed by this feat; Pretot had told him that Mavot had printed over thirty of them, spreading them all over campus – and, by extension, all over Manchester. Perhaps he marked down the locations, or utilised the help of Pretot. It doesn’t matter, anyway. They’re gone. They’re gone, and Enjolras is safe – so long as he stays away from the police station (an easy feat, without a cause to back) and Montparnasse himself, he should be fine. Montparnasse probably considered that last warning to be warning enough, a fact cemented by the evidence that decorates Enjolras’ face. He’s already had several question pointed at him today, by students and faculty alike. It’s hardly the sort of thing you can avoid at a crowded place like this.

He wishes he could avoid it anyway. Questions follow Enjolras wherever he goes – from Pretot, from Mavot, even from Grantaire. It’s exhausting. And so is grief.

He spends most of the afternoon at the café, typing up essays and writing out cue cards, desperate to act like the person he used to be, but even after several hours he hasn’t managed to fool himself successfully enough that he feels at peace amongst the music and faint clinking of china cups. The problem is still unsolved. Grantaire is still in need of help, though Enjolras can’t give it to him. Pretot’s suspicions and concerns grow more so with each passing day. In many ways, he is haunted by one fact and one fact only: the creeping feeling that time is running out. He tries to calm himself by reviewing what he knows. It’s helped before, so perhaps it will help him now.

Fact: Grantaire cannot find peace until Enjolras finds out a way to help him.

Fact: Enjolras is clueless in this regard.

Fact: Grantaire loves him, which is probably making things worse.

He stops counting. It doesn’t help.

Enjolras thinks briefly about attachment, then. Grantaire’s body, primarily, is what tethers him to this world – not that he can do much about Grantaire’s physical interring in British soil; he knew all about that problem already.But he is also attached to the people he loves – a list which includes Enjolras himself. The thought causes a physical ache in his chest. He doesn’t want to detach himself from Grantaire, not really. But if it means releasing him from this…

No, he can’t do it. There has to be another way to help, one that doesn’t involve prosecuting Grantaire’s killer (now impossible) or making him any more miserable than he already is. There has to be. Enjolras knows it. He just doesn’t know what it is yet.

He saves the essay he’s working on before closing down the laptop, then packs up and heads for home. Because it is his home, for now. His home, and Grantaire’s.

In his haste, he almost forgets to leave a tip. No wonder the world seems so ill at ease. The more he stands still, he thinks, the more chaos grows in place of his own movement.

*

“R?”

He puts down his bag in the hallway and turns on the light. The room – even in daylight – is muggy without it; large grey clouds loom just beyond the horizon of Enjolras’ living room window, and the subsequent shadows stretch long and lively across the open space. Enjolras turns on the second light and watches them disappear. It does nothing to ease the rising panic clawing at his throat. Grantaire isn’t here.

He can’t do this again. Not after yesterday. He walks back into the hallway and enters the bedroom.

“Grantaire?”

Nothing. The wicker chair stares back at him reproachfully from the corner; there are still boxes in here – a testament to Enjolras’ organisation skills. Plenty of boxes, but no ghost. Enjolras sits down on the bed and listens to the rapid beating of his heart. It’s the only thing he can hear in the silence, bar the gentle humming of the fridge in the other room. He hadn’t known that absence could be loud.

_Where are you, Grantaire?_

The last time Grantaire had vanished on him, it had been an accident. But something about the coldness of the apartment tells him that it’s different this time. That – after all this time – Grantaire is now different. To Enjolras, this can mean only one thing: he’s going to have go and look for him. He can’t sit here waiting. Even if he doesn’t find him, Grantaire might just be here on his return. But he can’t stay. Not with this residue loneliness pressing in on him from all sides.

He keeps the lights on, when he leaves. If Grantaire does come back in his absence, he wants him to know he’s been looking for him.

*

The heavens open up not long after Enjolras leaves the flat. Unprepared (like always) he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and tries not to worry too much about the hole in his shoe as he makes way over to Grantaire’s studio, rain sluicing off nearby buildings and dripping unsteadily onto the pavement.Enjolras still hasn’t given the spare key back to Pretot, and Pretot hasn’t asked him – nonetheless, he feels a little queasy about unlocking the door and letting himself in without the other man’s explicit permission. He _is_ looking for the studio’s previous owner right now though. That has to count for something.

With the rain pouring down on all sides, the studio is immensely dark – Enjolras stands transfixed in the doorway for a moment, watching the raindrops crawling their way down the vast panes – then shakes himself, closing the door behind him before stepping into the studio proper. The patter of rain immediately becomes background noise – not that it helps. He can’t remember seeing a light switch in here before. He feels a little colder for the lack of it – Enjolras has always felt slightly unnerved by the presence of thunderstorms, and standing in a cold, dark room without any lights does nothing to help ease the anxiety in his chest. He calls out anyway.

“Grantaire?”

No answer. Well, he’d almost expected that, hadn’t he? The studio is cold, and unnerving without light, but it isn’t _that_ cold. He walks around the perimeter of it anyway, stopping for a moment at the far wall, the one that’s made almost entirely out of windows. The usual canvases are stacked up against the piled glass, content in the stillness. The studio, he realises, seems a lot less restless than it had done the last time he was here – but that’s probably just because of Pretot’s cleaning. He looks again towards the warped glass, and then down at the floor, where the dancing raindrops seem to cast ever-moving shadows across the elderly floorboards. The entire scene is sunk in blue. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t matter: Grantaire isn’t here either. Enjolras allows his sigh to be swallowed up by the emptiness, then picks up his bag and heads to the next best place.

*

Enjolras heads to the café. It’s crowded, because of the rain, and damp, because this is Manchester, but it’s at leastmarginally warmer than it was outside. Enjolras takes a seat by one of the radiators and huddles down into the upholstery, clutching his coffee cup in two hands like it’s the key to his salvation. It’s not entirely hyperbole, all things considered. His sweatshirt is soaked in rain.

He wants to head back to the flat, but something tells him that Grantaire still won’t be there when he returns – not unless ghosts are like cats, with a severe aversion to water of any kind. Looking out through the window at the concrete landscape, Enjolras does not entirely disagree. But still. There aren’t many more places he can look. Unless…

Morbid, but it might work. Enjolras sighs only slightly before picking up the phone to call Pretot. Best not to tell him about the studio, he thinks before dialling. Best not to tell him about any of it, really. Pretot picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?” he asks. Wherever he is, it sounds busy. Manchester Victoria, maybe.

“Hey,” Enjolras replies. He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Do you – you were at Grantaire’s funeral, right?”

Silence on the line for a moment. Then, equally hesitant, “Yeah, I was. So what?”

Enjolras swallows. “I wanted to ask,” he says, “If you remembered where he was buried.”

Pretot’s sigh echoes down the line. “Enjolras…”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

The screech of brakes – he _is_ at the station – interrupts Pretot’s answer. Heavy footsteps fade. Pretot’s is voice is weighted with something he cannot detect. “Weaste Cemetery. Enter through the west gate. You’ll see it.”

Enjolras stares down at his coffee for a moment, thinking about all the things he will never know about Pretot. He wonders why that makes him sad. “Thank you,” he says. He hangs up.

*

Weaste Cemetery is a leafy place. Enjolras glances down at the map on his phone, then back up at the iron wrought gate just opposite, the metal rusted red in places like it’s been splattered with arcs of paint. It creaks as he opens it. Heavy branches shift restlessly in the wind, their leaves drawn flat by the drizzle. It’s the right place. Somehow, somewhere, he knows it to be true.

Grantaire is stood at the foot of a grave not six metres from where Enjolras is now, his outline made vague by the rain that patters down onto the headstones. There are a lot of dead flowers scattered about, Enjolras notes – flowers and wishes for the dead. Grantaire’s plot appears rather lacking in both capacities.

He glances up at Enjolras approaches, mouth parting in surprise as Enjolras kneels down to lie a clutch of red roses just beneath the inscription. He very carefully does not look at the words themselves, then stands up to face Grantaire.

“I went looking for you, you know.”

The ghost ducks his head. His eyes are listless, staring at the roses, rather than him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK.” He stands back to look at the grave – a simple headstone, with simple words that Enjolras will not read. “I missed you.”

“How did you know to come here?”

“I asked Pretot.”

“Oh.” With effort, Grantaire drags his eyes away from the plot in front of him. The rain strikes right through him as he turns to face Enjolras, piercing his palms, his feet. A Christ-like sacrifice, and all for nothing. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“It doesn’t matter. I just – I wanted to make sure you were OK.” Grantaire gives him a small, sad smile. Enjolras wishes he could reach out and take his hand.

“As OK as I’m ever going to be, I suppose,” he mutters, but he doesn’t say anything else. Enjolras watches him as he lifts his head, staring out at the rows and rows of graves that face them. There are countless people buried here, Enjolras thinks, and all anonymous. He opens his mouth to speak just as Grantaire makes an inarticulate sound, pointing across the tomb-strewn fields.

“What?” begins Enjolras questioningly, but the query is soon answered – Enjolras raises his head to see a familiar figure approaching the grave; Mavot, complete with coat and hat and sensible shoes. Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire and finds he has already disappeared.

Mavot, despite his sensible clothing, is red in the face and breathing hard by the time he approaches the grave, his frigid breath steaming up in front of him in plumes of white. It’s almost dark, now. Enjolras hadn’t stopped to consider the change in temperature on his way here, but it really is freezing. A true October.

A month full of ghosts, he thinks.

“Pretot told me to come look for you,” Mavot says, rubbing his gloved hands together. He lifts his shoulders and shudders, glancing down at Grantaire’s grave like an afterthought before adding, “Why are you here, Enj? Because, like, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Pretot thinks you’re going mad.”

Enjolras brushes him off. “I’m not mad,” he says firmly, despite knowing how ridiculous it sounds. He looks down at the grave. He can’t see the letters, now; he hates how relieved that makes him feel. He appeals to Mavot. “I just… I feel for him, OK? He’s in my apartment and he’s sad and I wish I could do something about it.”

He can tell Mavot that Grantaire’s a ghost because he already believes it – though probably not in the same sense that Enjolras knows. He’s never going to blow Enjolras’ cover, and that in itself is ridiculous. Enjolras feels like laughing.

“I get you, man,” Mavot says, giving him a rough slap on the shoulder. He’s still shivering, and after a moment Enjolras realises that he is too. “But maybe you should move out. It doesn’t seem to be doing you much good.”

Privately, Enjolras agrees. But that isn’t really the point here, is it?

*

They catch the bus back into Manchester together, Mavot getting off a few steps before him so that he doesn’t have to double back onto his own street. Enjolras waves goodbye to him, then sits back in his seat. He feels drained – worse than drained, actually, and if Grantaire’s not waiting for him when he gets back that feeling is only going to get worse. He tries to prepare himself for the possibility of it and instead almost ends up falling asleep. It’s been a long, long day.

He unlocks the flat with pretty poor expectations. But the lights are still on, and the kettle is boiling.

*

He gets changed, sitting down on the sofa next to Grantaire will a cup of black coffee and a bowl of rice. He’s forgotten to go shopping again. But who cares. He’s certainly not going out to buy a pint of milk.

At some point, the silence clearly becomes unbearable – for Grantaire in particular. Very slowly, he says, “Thank you. For the, uh, flowers.” That same small smile lingers at the edge of his lips. “Nobody’s done that in a while. And I’ve never had roses before.”

He’s trying his hardest to be cheerful, Enjolras thinks, but he doesn’t feel particularly cheered. He thinks he might have a cold, actually, which only adds to the situation at hand. A cold, a swollen nose, and a black eye. He wonders briefly if all of this was worth it – wonders so hard, in fact, that he forgets to give Grantaire any kind of answer at all. Grantaire twists his wind-coloured hands together in his lap.

“What were you going to say to me?” he says. “At the graveyard?”

Enjolras starts. He didn’t think Grantaire would notice that.

“Nothing,” he replies, although the answer is not nothing. The answer is _I’m sorry_ , the answer is _I love you_ or any combination of the two. The answer is a mantra that will not leave his head. What he ends up saying is, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” Grantaire, surprisingly, laughs.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s really not your fault.” His eyes flicker to Enjolras’ wristwatch. “You know, I realised something at the cemetery.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Enjolras feel nervous. Cautiously, he asks, “What?”

“I hadn’t noticed, but—” Grantaire cuts himself off, chuckling again. He sounds dangerously close to tears. “I can’t touch things anymore. At all. And my memory’s getting worse.” He pauses then, his voice nothing but a whisper. “That’s why I went back. I was forgetting – all of it, what it was like. I don’t know what that means.” Grantaire’s eyes flicker towards him. Enjolras wishes he had an answer.

“I won’t forget,” he says. He stands up to put the mug and bowl in the sink, then goes to sit beside Grantaire on the sofa. It’s sad, but if only one of them knows what he’s doing, Enjolras supposes it’s fine to pretend their hands are touching. In amongst the fear, he thinks, this is all they’ve got left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of short scenes this time. Apologies. By my reckoning, there’s probably about four chapters left to go. Hoorah!
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment or some kudos!


	15. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras’ mouth gets the better of him on two different occasions.

* * *

Predictably, yesterday’s events are not without fallout. Enjolras is just waking up when the phone begins to ring. He picks it up automatically – and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Enjolras?” Pretot’s voice is as firm as it was the day before. “I’d like to talk to you.”

The conversation is short and swift; there really is no arguing with Pretot. Within an hour, Enjolras is up and dressed (sensibly, for once) and preparing to head out of the door. Grantaire stops him near the threshold, his eyebrows furrowed, like they often are these days.

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” he asks. Enjolras pulls on a hat over his hair and turns to look at him. It’s raining again, which is just bloody typical, isn’t it.

“Not if I can help it,” he replies. He throws his bag over his shoulder and tries not to sigh. It feels odd to be wearing gloves again. And a scarf, to boot. Cosette would be proud of him. “He’s very persistent, though.”

“You said he didn’t believe in ghosts,” Grantaire points out. Enjolras has to concede to that.

“True,” he agrees. “But then, he already thinks I’m going crazy. I can’t fall that much further from grace, can I?” At Grantaire’s expression, he adds more kindly, “I know you’re real, R. I just – it’s still absurd, if you think about it. I’m going to have to rethink my entire stance on the Romantic period after this.”

Grantaire cracks a smile, which makes Enjolras feel at least a little bit better about his potential grilling. But it can’t be avoided. Quashing another sigh, he picks up his umbrella and opens the door. Grantaire watches him from the doorway. His feet still don’t touch the ground. Enjolras smiles in a heartsick way.

“See you later,” he says to him. Grantaire nods.

“See you later,” he echoes.

*

They meet at St Peter’s Square again – a location Enjolras has guessed by now to be close to where Pretot lives – according to Mavot, in a packed flatshare with seven other students. Enjolras counts himself lucky in this respect.

Pretot is standing in front of the war memorial with his arms folded. He’s holding an umbrella and his glasses are misted with the rain. On his face is pasted an expression that he usually seems to reserve for Mavot. Enjolras feels faintly offended at that.

“Hi,” he says as he approaches. Pretot turns to face him with one eyebrow raised.

“You want coffee?” he asks. It would seem that Enjolras is paying. He sighs quietly.

“Sure,” he says. “We can do coffee.”

*

They don’t go to Enjolras’ favourite coffee shop – despicably, they go to a nearby Costa instead. But that’s fine. He’s really not here to enjoy himself.

He carries the tray of two white cappuccinos over to the table Pretot has chosen. Pretot also has soya. This is something Enjolras did not know.

“So,” he says, sitting down in the chair opposite. It’s not very comfortable, but somehow Enjolras doubts that this is the Costa’s fault. It’s Pretot’s eyes that are the problem. He sighs at Enjolras’ flippancy and does not waste time with small talk.

“You asked me where Grantaire was buried.”

“I did.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

Enjolras looks across at him. Whenever Pretot leans forward, the light shines on the lenses of his glasses, giving him the appearance of a blind man. But Enjolras knows he is watching his every move.

“I don’t think I can,” he confesses eventually. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me, Enjolras. Try me.”

But Enjolras can’t. Even if Pretot _did_ believe him (and he knows he won’t) it would not solve the problem by any stretch of the imagination. To make Pretot happy would be to make Grantaire furious. Well, not furious maybe. But certainly not _glad_. He sighs into his coffee cup and delays answering by sipping it.

“Enjolras.”

He looks up guilty from the drink. Pretot sighs too.

“Fine. Next question, then. What did Montparnasse want with you, before we found you in the alleyway?”

Enjolras almost chokes on his coffee. He hadn’t expected to be right. He looks up at Pretot – and decides to tell the truth. Or at least, a little of the truth. A revised version, he thinks. Nothing more and nothing less.

“He wanted me to take the posters down,” he admits. Pretot nods like he suspected as much. He seems pacified for the moment, so Enjolras risks some conjecture of his own. “He made it sound like someone else had dirt on him. I thought it might be you.”

Pretot patiently stirs his coffee. “It might have been.” he says carefully. He gives Enjolras a direct look. “What do you mean by someone else?”

“I—oh.” Enjolras says. He’s dug himself into a hole, hasn’t he. Dammit. “I—I confronted him. About Grantaire.” He lifts his eyes to Pretot, looking back at him over the rim of his coffee cup. “It was Montparnasse who ran that red light. But you knew that already, didn’t you? You’ve known since he died.”

Somehow, that actually gets a smile out of Pretot. He puts down the coffee and brushes his fingers against a serviette. “I wanted to see if you would come to the same conclusion.” he says. “Although it still doesn’t explain yesterday’s phone call. There’s nothing to convict Parnasse of in Weaste Cemetery, Enjolras.”

He has a point there, Enjolras thinks. And he may have been halfway honest, but he can’t be completely honest. Grantaire’s ghost is the one thing Pretot cannot know about. He’s sure of that much, at least. Some secrets must stay secret.

This process of thought must show on his face, because Pretot raises one eyebrow and begins stirring his coffee once again.

“You also – genuinely – wanted to see his paintings. I was surprised by that.”

“Were you?”

“You’re a Journalism student. You probably don’t give two hoots about art in the normal sense, do you? But you still wanted to see the studio.”

“Pretot…”

“Did you slash that painting?”

“What? No! Of course I didn’t. What are you saying?”

Pretot looks at him – hard. “Someone looked very hard to find something in that studio. They found it in that painting – the only painting, I might add, that you were truly interested in. I’m willing to bet you know what was taken, too.”

“I—” Enjolras starts, then stops. Pretot has got this all backwards. It was _Parnasse_ who broke into Grantaire’s studio, not him – he just happened to be the one who found it that way, that’s all.

But Pretot clearly doesn’t believe that. Enjolras wonders where his anger is coming from. Is this all for the sake of Grantaire’s memory, or for himself?

The former, he thinks, after a moment. There’s genuine hurt in Pretot’s face – not, Enjolras thinks sadly, that he can actually do much about it. Not without telling the truth, of course. A truth that Pretot would under no circumstances believe. He sighs and stands up, still wearing his coat. Pretot stands up too.

“Listen, Enjolras. You’re either crazy – and I’ve met you, I know you aren’t – or you’re hiding something. Are you going to tell me what it is, or what?”

They are literally at a standstill. Enjolras had been hoping so desperately that it would not come to this. He picks up his hat and tugs it over his hair. “Or what,” he replies miserably. “Or what.”

*

The next morning is no better. When Enjolras wakes up, he can immediately tell that Grantaire is missing again. He considers his choices. Either he goes looking for him now, and risks being late, or looks for him later, and risks Grantaire being not so very okay at all.

He decides to risk being late.

He checks the studio first – briefly, in case Pretot decides to turn up and catch him at it – but Grantaire is nowhere to be found within its four walls. He glances at his watch, sighs a little, and makes the decision to board the bus to Weaste Cemetery. The roses are still there, though wilting slightly, but Grantaire isn’t. He checks his watch again and swears out loud, the harsh sound echoing out into the distance beyond the trees. He’s going to be more than late, by the time he gets back. If Enjolras is right, he’s already missed his lecture entirely. Damn Grantaire, for once. Damn him.

He tries to finish off his latest essay on the bus, but the words don’t come as easily to him as he would’ve liked. He’s going to fail this unit, he thinks. He’s going to fail this unit, and Grantaire is missing again, and Pretot thinks he’s some kind of criminal, but he just… doesn’t care. He’s done with caring, for the moment. All Enjolras wants right now is for things to make sense. It shouldn’t be an impossible request, but it is.

It’s a small thing, but the universe still won’t let him have it. He spends the rest of the day in a dusty corner of the university library – without coffee. He doesn’t want to bump into Pretot again – or, God forbid, Mavot. Both of them have queries he cannot answer. Halfway through this realisation, he bangs his head down on the desk in front of him. The librarian stacking shelves nearby gives him an extremely pointed look.

He’s being selfish and he knows it. But somehow, he can’t bring himself to stop.

*

He stops at the convenience store on his way home – the very same one that played such a fatal part in Grantaire’s murder, and one he’s been trying to avoid himself until now – to buy a loaf of bread, three tins of beans and a carton of milk. The milk makes him nauseous for reasons he won’t dare admit to himself. By the time he lets himself back into the flat, it’s dangerously late at night. But who needs schedules, really. Enjolras could sleep at any time, if he so chose.

The lights are on. Grantaire is seated at the small dining table, floating as per usual several tiny centimetres above the actual padded cushion. Enjolras’ anger dissipates even as he looks at him. He dumps the carrier bag in his hand onto the sideboard and sits down in the opposite chair.

“Where have you been?” he asks the wall, rather than the ghost himself. Grantaire has the decency to look slightly chastised.

“In and out,” he says. His voice is so much quieter than it used to be, Enjolras thinks sadly. He wonders briefly what has happened to the rest of him. It can’t all be to do with being a ghost. Some of this – the loss of a laugh, the loss of a smile, the gradual dulling of those bright, bright eyes – is purely to do with being Grantaire, he thinks. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry about that on top of everything else. Grantaire is not being pulled away from him by some otherworldly force. He is being pulled away by himself. Eroded by emotion and lack of will. Enjolras does not want to witness this. He wants Grantaire to be free. But Grantaire, by contrast, is interested only in sadness. It hurts his heart. It hurts his heart, and somehow, it makes him angry. Not all of Grantaire’s life has to be directed by fate. He stands up as suddenly as he had sat down.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces. Grantaire’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but Enjolras refuses to give him the opportunity – he’s already had too many. He stalks into the bedroom, throwing the door shut behind him before changing quickly and flinging himself into bed. Walls, of course, do not matter to Grantaire – he floats in a moment afterwards, drifting forwards to hover somewhere over Enjolras’ left shoulder. Enjolras bats him away and turns over onto his side.

“Go away, R. I don’t want to talk right now.”

“Enjolras—”

“I’ve had enough,” he says. His voice is muffled by the covers, but he knows Grantaire can hear him. “I’ve had enough, and I’m not _doing_ it anymore for Christ’s sake. Even when I try to help you, you don’t listen. You won’t help me back. You never do. You’re the most passive man I’ve ever met and I’m _sick_ of it.”

Silence from Grantaire. Suddenly, Enjolras regrets opening his mouth. It feels like his stomach is full of snakes, twisting and churning over themselves without relief. He puts his hands over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the darkness. He sits up, turning in the direction of Grantaire. “I’m sorry, R.”

But Grantaire is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely determined to finish this fic before I return to coursework. Hence the alarming updating speed.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or some kudos. :)


	16. Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras grapples with his consciousness.

He doesn’t sleep well. As soon as the clock ticks over to five am, he’s up and dressed, stomach churning all the while as his consciousness echoes back to him snippets of the night before. The reflection does not bode well for Enjolras. He steps into the living room.

“R?” he asks, his voice twitching. Grantaire is sat on the sofa with his legs folded, staring out into space. His eyes glance at Enjolras as he walks into the room, but he makes no move to greet him. Guilt wrenches at Enjolras’ insides.

“I’m sorry,” he says to him. He’s thought about what he might say to Grantaire all night – repeating the same sentiment over and over, trying to make the words perfect. It’s an impossible task. “I don’t know what I was thinking, I…” He trails off, realising how he sounds. It’s not an apology, nor a reason. It’s a list of excuses. And he can’t excuse the inexcusable, can he. Not now.

Grantaire’s eyes flicker beneath his lashes. His mouth could be pursed by a button, for all the sound he’s making. At last he says quietly: “You have a lecture soon, don’t you? You should get ready.”

His first lecture of the day isn’t until mid-afternoon. Grantaire knows this. But then, Enjolras is mature enough to recognise bone-deep hurt when he sees it – he knows what Grantaire is getting at. He wishes fervently that he was not the cause. It’s his own fault – but he still wants to be blameless. Another flaw of his. Lack of foresight, and lack of emotion. He nods stiffly at Grantaire before disappearing into his bedroom to fetch his shoes.

He’s gone within the hour. Enjolras leaves the lights on, but sees them click off one by one from the street once he’s properly out of the door. It’s a sad, sad sight.

His own fault, always. Enjolras wishes he could turn back the clock. If he could have his way, Grantaire wouldn’t have died in the first place. Enjolras would have saved him.

But he can’t, he thinks sadly, and he didn’t. For the first time in his life, Enjolras feels tired of that internal desire, to keep on trying to fix things for the better. He’s tired of it.

*

Walking through Manchester before the dawn is probably one of the strangest things he’s ever done. The first trains don’t arrive in the station until half past five. The first of the buses don’t draw in until six. The city, bar a few other insomnia-ridden occupants, is largely empty. He glances briefly at the various sleeping bags and makeshift cardboard beds drawn up outside shopfronts – occupied, and undisturbed for at least enough hour without facing any kind of abuse. It’s not peaceful, not by a long shot, but it is quiet. Enjolras breathes in the silence as he walks steadily away from No. 32, his footsteps loud against the damp flagstones. It’s stopped raining, now, but the sky continues to feel heavy. Or maybe that’s just his heart, jostling around inside of him like it has a mind of its own. Today will not end well, he thinks. Just like everything else, he knows it to be true. Today is not a good day.

He keeps going until he reaches Piccadilly Gardens – also quiet, with the fountains turned off and the buskers as yet asleep. He sits down close to a lamppost, leans back and closes his eyes. Once it hits seven am, he has a chance of getting coffee. Until then, all he has to do is breathe.

Breathe in. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper with Grantaire.

Breathe out. He hadn’t meant to be so short with Pretot, either, but he’d still gone and done it, hadn’t he? But wait, he’s not breathing properly again. Breathe in, breath out. Don’t think about it too much. Just concentrate on getting through the day. You still love Grantaire. He still loves you – hopefully. Things will get better. Things will sort themselves out.

If he thinks it enough times, maybe it will come true. Maybe Grantaire will forgive him. Maybe he will find a way to fix things. But he doubts it. His anxiety is so much louder than the rest of him. Enjolras is so much more fear than faith.

The morning ticks on. Manchester begins to wake. But even as the world transforms itself around him, Enjolras can’t help but feel like he’s gotten stuck in exactly the same place. Things will not change. Things cannot change. He’s too afraid to let them.

He thinks he might understand Grantaire, now.

*

For most of the day, Enjolras spends his time trying to avoid the university. He doesn’t end up going to the lecture after all – rather, he finds himself flitting from coffee shop to coffee shop, bobbing into department stores when the restless feeling inside of him grows too much to bear. He tries to come up with solutions – then grows frustrated as he realises his thoughts are going in circles. In the end, he ends up catching the metro to Salford Quays and pacing his way around the local art gallery. It’s mid-afternoon on a weekday, so the place is hardly crowded. He ends up leaving early anyway. The matchstick paintings around him are too like Grantaire’s for comfort.

He goes to the library, withdraws a couple of books, returns a few others. Tries not to think too much about the desperation that follows his every action. He’s too clumsy today. He keeps dropping things – books, spoons, serviettes. It gets him noticed more than once.

An itch in his subconsciousness has been telling him where he should be all morning. By five pm, he gives in to it. He goes to the studio.

His hands are shaking as he lets himself in. If Pretot finds him here, fine, let him find him. He really doesn’t care anymore. He’s tried almost everything he can to help Grantaire. Now, he’s at the end of his rope. Grantaire can’t be the only one in need of saving, he thinks.

*

The studio is blissfully quiet – but dark. Enjolras closes the door behind him with hardly a sound, then walks himself over towards Grantaire’s desk. No spilled paints, or drop cloths this time. Even the lidless bottle of turps has vanished. Pretot, it seems, has done his job thoroughly indeed. Enjolras can’t imagine that it was ever this clean in Grantaire’s lifetime. He wonders if Pretot will sell the studio once he’s finished. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, in the end.

The silence calms him. Enjolras sits down in Grantaire’s chair and takes out his laptop, the glow of the screen lighting up his face in the dark. He can think, here. Finally, in this cold, carnivorous space, he can breathe. The ache in his chest falls back into the darkness. He allows himself a sigh, watching as his breath rises up in front of him, a cloud of pure white vapour. He is not content – but he will do. He throws himself into the research task and forgets his troubles for an hour or more. Nothing is as lovely as the ability to escape his own skin.

He’s still typing when he hears a rustling on the other side of the room – Enjolras freezes in place for a moment, then turns to look: someone (Himself? Pretot? Montparnasse, back again?) has left a window open; scraps of torn newspaper, still taped to the back of the canvases, are fluttering in the wind. Enjolras closes his laptop and stands up to shut the window. The fluttering stops. He looks down again at the canvases – still so incredibly beautiful – and thinks again about connections, about attachments, about the systems that hold everything together. The world is so endlessly complex; even now, Enjolras can barely understand it. He is not yet nineteen and knows hardly anything about anything.It doesn’t seem fair. He is too young for all of this. Nevertheless, he keeps looking at the paintings. His heart is beating frantically in his chest.

He thinks about Grantaire catching the metro to Salford Quays, thinks about him wandering around the art gallery with a sketchpad and a pencil. He thinks about Grantaire’s eyes flickering back and forth as he draws – long, confident lines that stand completely at odds with the man himself. He thinks about Grantaire standing alone by the dockside with an easel, sketching out the quays just like Lowry must have done, all those years ago. The images are so clear to him that they could almost be memories – like he’s looking back at Grantaire out of a periscope from far, far away. He thinks about Grantaire spilling paint on the carpet, and Éponine lecturing him for days afterwards. He thinks about him buying the studio – about how much this endless space must have meant to him, a man who was endlessly confined. He thinks about all of the life within Grantaire, and how much of that life went into his paintings. He thinks about it, and the pain in his chest returns tenfold.

There is a conclusion to these thoughts, he thinks. There is a solution to Grantaire’s eternal problem. Enjolras’ insides twist. The realisation he has fallen upon is terrible – so terrible he almost wishes he could not answer it at all. But, deep in his heart, he knows it’s the right thing to do. Grantaire’s stubbornness, for once, is not the problem – the problem is Enjolras’ heart. He loves too much. He has always loved too much.

He closes his eyes and stands still in the centre of the studio for a moment, staring into the darkness of his eyelids, and wishes to himself that for once, just once, all of time could stand still. But time standing still is what caused Grantaire’s ghost to appear in the first place. Now, he has to let him go.

*

He asks Pretot to meet him down by the docks. Pretot does not come willingly.

They walk side by side in the direction of Deansgate, passing Mavot’s favourite haunt as they go. Enjolras can’t remember what day it is – the club is blasting music either way. Mavot could be in there right now, he thinks. But he doesn’t say it.

It’s a few moments before before they speak. Pretot, at last, is the one to break the silence.

“Why am I here, Enjolras?”

Enjolras stops where he is and looks across at Pretot, trying to gauge the expression on his face. It’s impossible. It’s always impossible, really.

“I need—” he begins, then swallows and starts again. “There’s something I need to do. Something I need your help with.”

Pretot raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”

Another swallow. The waters just below them are so very dark. “We have to burn Grantaire’s paintings,” he says quietly. “All of them.”

The other man stares at him. “Are you serious?” he asks him. Enjolras winces at the fury in his voice. “Are you actually serious? Are you messing with me right now?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says simply, because there is nothing else to say. “No, I’m not.”

Pretot sucks in a breath, his expression terrible – and then he exhales, pushing a hand across his face. They are wearing two very similar expressions, in this moment. Two snapshots of grief. Pretot speaks.

“This has got something to do with whatever you’re not telling me, hasn’t it? That big secret of yours.”

“If you’re lucky,” Enjolras replies, “you’ll never have to know. But I – I know this is the right thing to do. Even if it’s terrible.” Pretot shakes his head.

“You’re asking me to destroy _four years worth of work_ , do you understand that? That’s without even considering his first year as a postgraduate. Enjolras, I—”

Enjolras knows. He feels wretched just picturing it. “There’s no other way,” he says quietly, almost without meaning to. Pretot makes an inarticulate sound that is almost certainly despair.

“No other way to _what_?” he asks, his voice irritated. He looks across at Enjolras for an answer, but Enjolras can’t give him that. Not yet.

“I need – I need to go home first,” he says. He watches Pretot watch him, and sighs again. The world is not fair. The world has never been fair. He thinks of Grantaire and knows it for a fact. “I won’t be long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final stretch, folks!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave some kudos or a comment.


	17. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras learns to say goodbye.

It’s long past midnight by the time Enjolras makes it back to the apartment. All of the lights are off, and the hallway is as silent as a tomb. He walks forward into the living room with his heart hammering alongside him in his throat. Enjolras only wants one thing from Grantaire now, and that is forgiveness – for what he has already done, and what he is about to do. He calls out into the dark.

“R? Are you there?”

There is a breath of silence. Enjolras blinks – and suddenly, standing in front of him, is Grantaire. His face looks different somehow, he thinks – more smudged than it used to be, less human. Enjolras loves him. He is already dead to the world in so many ways, but he loves him.

“Enj,” he says. His voice is just the same. “What is it?”

Enjolras looks up into those sad blue eyes and wishes, just as he has all evening, that there can be another way to end this. But he knows it isn’t true. “I’ve found a way to save you,” he says at last, “A way to let you go.”

Those sad blue eyes seem to grow sadder with every word. They are both so afraid. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“And do you want to?”

Enjolras shudders. “Not at all.”

Grantaire smiles – it’s despairingly quiet. “All right,” he says softly, and then vanishes into smoke. Enjolras starts forward.

“R! Please! Don’t leave me just yet. Not like that.”

A cool voice whispers in his ear, the last remnant of the thing that is Grantaire, now slowly fading into dust. The job will be finished completely soon, but this—

Well. This is the hardest part. He has Grantaire’s consent, but not his own. It feels dreadful.

“I can’t wait,” the voice whispers. “I hate goodbyes.”

“But I want to say goodbye to you!”

The voice sighs. He can’t see Grantaire’s face anymore, can’t know if he’s close to him, but he can feel the hot tears on his cheeks and knows that at least one of them is crying. It feels like the world is falling apart.

“Don’t,” the voice soothes, as a gentle breeze skates across his face. A kiss, of sorts. A last kiss. “It’s all right. I love you.”

“I love you t—” Enjolras gets out, and then stops, because the wind has gone out of the apartment and he can already tell that Grantaire is gone. There’s only one thing left to do, and now he has to go and do it. Scatter the ashes – again – but do it properly this time. Do it right. Make sure, that in this second death, Grantaire knows he is loved.

He is, Enjolras thinks. He always was.

Mavot smokes, and Pretot knows a man who runs a gas station. Between the three of them, they’ll make this right.

*

Enjolras thinks about patterns, and connections, and what it means to love someone. The more he thinks, the less sense it makes. It is illogical to love a ghost.

The three of them stand shoulder to shoulder in the rear car park of Mavot’s favourite venue. It’s not open, but then, from this distance, it seems unlikely they would be able to hear anything if it was. The majority of Enjolras’ attention is taken up by the bonfire burning in the middle of the asphalt. In the blackness of the night, it’s the only source of colour around for miles.

He watches the red and yellow flames crawl up slowly around the canvases, their wooden supports taking longer to burn than the rest of them. Grantaire’s sketchbooks are there too. Those, Enjolras thinks, don’t so much burn as gradually disappear. Every word or thought of Grantaire, lost. But not to him. And not to the two standing beside him, either. Enjolras’ shadow stretches out behind him like a crazed extension of himself, long and thin and dark. Smoke and the scent of burning acrylic fill his nostrils. They join together in the air eventually, a long, long way up.

One of the canvas frames cracks suddenly in two; Enjolras ducks his head down as yellow sparks leap upwards from the pile – and sees Pretot turn his head away. But even without sight, the fire cannot be escaped. The crackle of burning wood and paper before them is as loud as it is bright. Enjolras looks on at the bonfire and tries to pretend that his heart isn’t burning with it.

“Well,” says Mavot into the silence. Just like the two beside him, he is wrapped up tight in hat, scarf, gloves and coat. He rubs his hands together as he talks. The fire is warm, but only just. “Well.” Pretot turns back towards him.

“Well, what?” he asks. His face is plenty injured. Enjolras watches them both without comment. Mavot shrugs.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. He glances back at the bright orange blaze. There’s a light wind blowing in from the docks just behind, making the flames before them dance madly. “It just feels like we should say something.” He eyes dart towards Enjolras. “You going home for Christmas, Enj?”

Enjolras starts. He wasn’t expecting the change in topic. Shuffling his shoulders, he pulls the scarf he’s wearing a little tighter around his neck. “I don’t know,” he replies, as Pretot turns back with a huff to observe the raging flames. “It’s over two months away, isn’t it? I guess I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” He thinks he knows, though. Judging by the expression on Mavot’s face, Enjolras thinks that he probably knows as well. He ducks down his head and pushes his gloved hands into his pockets.

“Does it snow here, in the winter?”

Mavot laughs. “Of course it snows. Though it rains a lot of the time, too. The rain never really stops.” He arches back his head to look at the night sky, cold and indifferent to the events of below. There aren’t any stars – the light pollution is too thick for that – but Enjolras knows they’re there. Calling out to each other across the galaxy. He wonders if Mavot is thinking the same thing.

He wonders where Grantaire is, then, and if this is really all it will take to set things right. When he raises his head, he finds Pretot staring back at him, his expression raw and unfiltered. The moment passes as quickly as it had arrived. Pretot glances back towards the bonfire – then takes out an envelope and shoves it hurriedly into Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras blinks, but the other man does not elaborate further.

“Open it later,” is all he says. Enjolras stares at it, swallowing – then obeys. He slips the envelope into his pocket and tries to forget that it’s there. With the raging fire in front of them, the task is not hard to achieve. He steps a little closer to Pretot and Mavot. Mavot clears his throat.

“Never gonna tell us what this was about, then?” he asks good-naturedly. Enjolras looks at him, but it’s Pretot who answers.

“If we’re lucky enough,” he says, glancing sideways at Enjolras, the firelight bouncing off the lenses of his glasses, “we’ll never have to know.” He pauses. “But I think I might have an inkling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment or some kudos.


	18. Sepia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months later, Enjolras goes home.

He decides to go home for Christmas.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac meet him at the airport. They’re not alone. The terminal is crowded with people seeking out individual faces; children, parents, grandparents, au pairs. Most of them are holding signs – Courfeyrac included. Enjolras can see his head bobbing from the moment he walks into the atrium. It makes him smile.

“Enjolras!” he yells, as Enjolras makes his way over towards them, carry-on luggage in hand. Courf is practically dancing. “Enjolras!”

He braces himself for the impact of Courfeyrac’s hug, and finds he is not left wanting – Courfeyrac runs across to him the same way he always does, throwing his arms around his neck and squeezing the breath out of Enjolras in one sweeping movement. Enjolras squeezes back, a tad more enthusiastically than usual. He is released a second later. Combeferre smiles at him from behind Courfeyrac’s bobbing head.

“Good flight?” he asks, pushing his sliding glasses back onto his face with an index finger. The gesture is despairingly familiar. Enjolras hugs him too, wrapping his arms around him, gripping at a handful of Combeferre’s jumper.

“It was OK,” he says. There’s a chasm somewhere in his heart; he ignores it. “Better now.”

They collect his two suitcases from the conveyor belt together, then head outside. The mid-December air is cold and crisp, a far cry from the carefully regulated air conditioning of the airport, and the sky above is white with the threat of snow. Piles of slush are scattered all along the sidewalk and across the car park.

Enjolras follows Combeferre and Courfeyrac around the corner – then stops, blinking at the sight of Bahorel’s battered brown Sedan. A familiar head sticks itself out of the window, and Courfeyrac leaps sideways to press himself again Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Surprise! We rented a Bahorel. And a bonus Feuilly. Who _actually_ cut his shift short to come and see you, imagine.”

Feuilly looks up at him from beneath a mop of bedraggled red hair. Bahorel’s staffy Polly is curled up contentedly in his lap. “It’s true,” he says, combined with a smile that stretches from ear to ear. “Bringing the dog gets you a discount, apparently.” Beside him, Bahorel slams the horn three times in succession.

“You wanna put those suitcases in the trunk?” he asks, leaning over to look at them. “Or is that also part of the hire?”

According to Courfeyrac, luggage-lifting was in the small print. Enjolras slides into the middle passenger seat, Courf on one side and Ferre on the other. As he clambers in, Polly twists round in Feuilly’s lap and gives a little bark of recognition. Bahorel clambers back into the car. A moment later, they’re off, Bahorel’s ancient radio spluttering out a song or two as they go. Feuilly turns round just as they make it out of the airport car park.

“So, Enj,” he asks, “Good first term?”

Enjolras blinks – then forces the corners of his mouth into a smile. He can’t say anything, he thinks. Even now, months later, he can’t say anything. At best, it would probably make him cry. At worst, none of the people around him right now would believe him. He opts for an easy lie.

“It was all right,” he says. “I brought back postcards for you. From the Lowry.”

Feuilly smiles back. Polly gives a little yip. “I’m so glad,” he replies, “My René Magritte collection is beginning to get out of control.”

Another crackly song fades in from Bahorel’s ancient radio, and he reaches forward automatically to turn up the volume. His car smells comfortingly of Polly, Enjolras thinks. With that thought, he slides easily out of the conversation and back into his own head, allowing Feuilly, Bahorel and Courfeyrac’s chatter to go on without him. After a point, Combeferre taps him thoughtfully on the shoulder. Enjolras looks at him.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently. “You seem upset.”

Enjolras pauses before answering. He _is_ upset, but he doesn’t want to show it. Not here, in front of Bahorel and Feuilly. He shakes his head and reaches out to squeeze Combeferre’s hand in his instead, hoping that he’ll get the message. Because he is Combeferre, and because Enjolras has known him longer than he has known about the concept of social equity, he does. Enjolras watches as he forays back into the conversation, glancing back every so often to look at him as if he’s afraid his friend will disappear without observation. Enjolras smiles each time, and each time Combeferre’s slight, worried frown grows more and more pronounced. But they don’t say anything. They know each other too well for that.

*

Bahorel and Feuilly drop them back at the apartment without staying for dinner – they have to go and walk Polly, Feuilly says, and Bahorel nods in agreement. Which leaves the three of them alone to eat lunch, which means Enjolras can unpack without much interruption. He’s glad, in a way.

Combeferre helps him carry the suitcases up to his room, Courfeyrac following just behind with the carry-on. To say that Courf has decorated the hallway using tinsel would be an understatement; it is piled upon every available surface. A Christmas tree sits demurely on the hallway table, bright green needles sticking out every which way like a pincushion. It’s a familiar sight.

Enjolras stops in the doorway to his room and stares at the unchanged contents. It shouldn’t feel so strange, coming back here, but it does. Courfeyrac elbows him cheerfully.

“We kept the room clean and didn’t rent to anyone!” he says with a grin. “Aren’t you proud of us?”

Enjolras manages another smile. “Very,” he says, although he is still staring. His potted plant Gertrude is sitting on the windowsill in wait for him, apparently freshly watered. The carpet has been vacuumed. His bed has been made. Crucially, there is no dust. Suddenly, Enjolras feels like crying again. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Combeferre’s hand brushes against his shoulder.

“We’ll leave you to it,” he says, giving Enjolras a knowing look, then turns to push Combeferre gently in the direction of the stairs. They’re gone within an instant. Enjolras pauses for a moment, glancing up at the glittering white tinsel Courfeyrac has placed across the top of the door frame, then steps into the room. It’s clean, and it’s quiet, but it also feels despairingly unlived in – a thought which makes his stomach clench all the more. He begins to unpack.

Clothes are folded into the cupboard. Soaps and bottles of shampoo and shea butter are put back into the bathroom alongside Courfeyrac’s endlessly loyal rubber duck and Combeferre’s toothbrush. His three favourite paperbacks slide easily into the gaps on his bookshelf. Everything has its place – and everything returns home.

Soon, there is only one box left – barely the size of his two hands, with crumpled, time-worn corners and an achingly familiar, misshaped lid. Enjolras lifts it out of the carry-on and deposits it in its usual place underneath the bed – then takes it out again, sitting down cross-legged on the duvet as he takes off the lid and begins sorting through the contents. At the bottom of the box, he pauses. Pretot’s envelope stares up at him, still unopened. He doesn’t remember putting it there, but—

No, there’s no other explanation for it. With trembling hands, Enjolras picks it up and tears it open.

There’s a photo inside, of a man he almost doesn’t recognise. Happy-faced, with curly dark hair and paint splatters covering his loose-fitting trousers and t-shirt. Standing next to him, grinning hard, is a young boy who shares Éponine’s face. Enjolras recognises him as younger Gavroche. The man is Grantaire.

He turns over the photograph, but there’s nothing written on it. The envelope, too, is blank but for his name scrawled on the front in what he has to assume is Pretot’s own writing. No explanations, no introductions. Enjolras wonders where Pretot found the photograph. He wonders if it even matters. His vision blurs.

 _There will come a time_ , he thinks. There will come a time, but he can’t waste this time now. He has to remember Grantaire as he was. It’s hard, but it is not impossible. Though death is such a cold, impassive barrier to life…

“Enjolras?”

He looks up. Combeferre is standing in the doorway. Enjolras notices, for the first time, that he is several inches taller than the last time they saw each other. He pushes his glasses uncertainly up onto the bridge of his nose again as Enjolras continues to look at him, suddenly seeing him in a new light. He’s missed him – he’s missed both of them. So, so much. Combeferre steps a little further into the room.

“What’s wrong?”

Enjolras looks back down at the box of mementos by his side. Grantaire’s living body stares back up at him, forever frozen into that smiling, happy posture, never to die or erode, and that fact alone seems to make his insides hurt like nothing else. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until the picture blurs in front of him and Combeferre steps forward to wrap an arm around his shoulders. His back stiffens as his friend’s eyes land on the box – the secret box, never before discussed or seen by others. Not even by his two closest friends. Combeferre gives him a sideways glance.

“Who’s that?” he asks, seemingly not recognising Gavroche, “Someone you met at university?”

Enjolras lets himself nod. It’s an intensely painful gesture. “He’s gone now,” he says, his voice breaking on the very last syllable, and suddenly he’s crying again, fully-fledged tears streaming down his face like they’ll never stop. God knows what he’s feeling right now. Sadness, anger, regret. His head is a mess.

“Hey, hey,” Combeferre soothes. He pushes the box gently out of the way and comes to sit beside Enjolras on the narrow bed, the frame itself rickety after years of use. “Don’t cry. I thought you weren’t quite all right. Did something happen?”

When Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, his throat constricts as if there’s no longer any air. He lets out a choking sob instead and falls into the crook of Combeferre’s waiting arms.

Courfeyrac appears suddenly in the doorway, his buoyant face quicksilvering quickly into concern as he notices Enjolras sat crying on the bed. He glances uneasily at Combeferre.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Enjolras feels Combeferre shrug.

“I don’t know. I think – someone he met at university.”

Courfeyrac crouches down on the opposite side of the bed and reaches out to grab Enjolras’ hand. He doesn’t resist. It’s not as if he can tell them anything about what happened – or at least, what happened truly. If he doesn’t talk at all the agony might eat him alive. So he settles on this instead:

“I lost touch with someone. It’s not important.”

Combeferre squeezes his shoulder. It’s such a relief to have them here, but at the same time Enjolras would rather be anywhere than with his friends right now. He doesn’t want to ruin them with own emotional poison. He doesn’t want them to think he’s crazy, either, which is an equally important point and one he should probably be paying more attention to in the grander scheme of things from this point onwards.

“It’s clearly important,” Courfeyrac says, trying to keep his voice low. Because it’s Courfeyrac, it doesn’t work, but Enjolras appreciates him trying. He’s wearing a bright yellow shirt that hurts Enjolras’ eyes. It reminds him of the sun, which is essentially all Courfeyrac could ever be. He clutches at Courfeyrac’s fingers as the older boy squeezes his hand in reassurance.

“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to. But we’re here for you if you want. We’re always here for you.”

Enjolras finds himself nodding sheepishly. He knows this. He _knows_ it. So why is it so hard to convince himself of it now?

“I know that,” he says, in a pathetic echo of his own rampant thoughts, “But I—I don’t know. I need to think about it. Before I say anything.”

Combeferre squeezes at his shoulder again, his hand tracing circles in the middle of Enjolras’ back, the same way he might calm his younger sister. “That’s fine,” he says, standing up. Enjolras suddenly doesn’t want them to leave. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”

Once they’ve left, the room feels empty again – too empty, in fact. Enjolras turns sideways to look at the battered old box, then carefully places the lid on top of it, picking it up and putting it back where it belongs. He’s been living with Combeferre and Courfeyrac ever since he fell out with his father – ever since his father vowed he would give him nothing but tuition fees for college and university. But Enjolras had rejected even that. He hadn’t wanted any contact with him, and now he doesn’t. He wonders if he should’ve told Grantaire that – if Grantaire ever figured it out. His heart twitches again. He’ll never know, now. He will never know so much.

Enjolras thinks about the photograph hidden under his bed. He thinks about Grantaire’s smile. He thinks about Manchester and the studio and the Lowry, and lastly, he thinks about Grantaire’s grave. About the words he had refused to read, but had seen anyway. The words he will never forget.

_To live in hearts we leave behind – this is not to die._

Grantaire has been dead for over a year, he thinks. Only now does he understand what that really means.

Enjolras does not have time to waste.

*

At lunchtime, he offers to make sandwiches. Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac oblige him by following Enjolras into the kitchen and sitting down at the cloth-covered table.

Chopping the last boiled egg into halves, Enjolras says at last: “I’m not going back to Manchester.”

Courfeyrac turns to look at him, his turning head followed by Combeferre’s, who takes off his glasses and begins to polish them on the hem of his jumper. He looks carefully at Enjolras. “Why?” he asks. Enjolras puts down the knife in his hand and sighs.

“It’s a nice place,” he allows. “But it isn’t – it’s not the place for me. I don’t think I’m cut out to be an international student.” He hands them their sandwiches and Combeferre his coffee and sits down at the table with his own. Courfeyrac tilts his head.

“It’s your choice,” he says. Enjolras watches as he and Combeferre exchange brief – but meaningful – looks. “Though I can’t say we’d be unhappy to have you back. We’ve missed you.”

Enjolras smiles. “I’ve missed you too,” he says. “A lot. A whole lot, actually, so…”

Ferre puts down his coffee cup. “You look so sad when you say that,” he observes, “Why?”

Enjolras puts a hand to his face, sighing through his fingers. When he looks up, his eyes are as sincere as they have ever been.

“You’re important,” he says at last. “All of you. I didn’t realise that until I went away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Et fini! After seven long months, this thing is finally done. My utmost gratitude to those who have stuck with this fic (and me!) until the very end, as well as those who have left comments throughout - you’re the absolute best. This fic would never have been finished without the encouragement of others.
> 
> One could argue Grantaire has suffered quite unduly here. I promise to post something happy in the near-future to make up for it. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! It means a lot.


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